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

[exequy]

[ With up for it, mage, token human, and Solas’ general nonchalance, there are so many excellent causes for rankling that Kostos couldn’t possibly choose just one. He scowls at everyone he can reasonably fit into the path of a single look and retreats a few steps back from the edge—but to crouch and untie his boots, not to leave. ]

In the interest of respecting, [ he says, with teeth, ] what we do not understand and cannot control, whoever goes first should make sure they can come back again, while there are still people on this side to try to do something if they cannot.

If that would not waste too much daylight.

[ He’s going to make a list of reckless fools in his diary and guess what.

His own name will be on it, too, but smaller than everyone else’s. ]

[aenseidhe]

I'll do it.

[ iorveth adds dryly, from where he'd come to crouch in the other side of Adalia, having poured some of his canteen out on a piece of sleeve other to clean off her face. Gross or not, leaving unknown substances on or near your orifices is a bad idea.

But he's already the one most stripped down and ready to go, pack handed over to Gwen, where he leaves it (if he dies, they can make his shit useful). Standing up, he looks to Kostos, giving him a shrug. ]

Did you honestly expect an ancient temple devoted to a god of death wouldn't have some dangerous or unseemly elements within?

[ tomb raiding 101, my dude. Wry commentary aside, he paces forward, a single blade in hand that is held over his head as he starts to step into the river, and cross, ready to stab at anything that might grab his ankles. HERE WE GO, KIDS. ]

[nadasharillen]

[ A sudden thought occurs to her, given that Iorveth has prepared himself to stab anything that might be living (or unliving?) in the tide of the river. ]

A thought.

[ she undoes her pack, fishes around in it, and pulls out a coil of light rope, tossing him one end. ]

We don't know where that river goes, or [ a nod at the readied blade ] what's in it. Perhaps nothing, perhaps a host of... something... that will take you under.

[ not that she doubts at all his ability to stab the actual shit out of any given thing, but sometimes there's a lot of any given things ]

Better overprepared than under?

[aenseidhe]

[ Iorveth takes the rope, moving to tie it around his waist - it's a good idea, and he nods his agreement to her. ]

Should I die to the Serpent of Blood River, someone please mind my chicken. [ difficult to tell if that's being said seriously or not, as he tugs the knot of the rope tight, and turns to pace towards the steps. ]

Ready?

[elegiaque]

I've stupid magic birds, they'll be kindred spirits—

( it might be physically impossible for gwenaëlle not to crack on when the opportunity presents itself. )

[aenseidhe]

[ Because he can't help it, Iorveth flashes her a smirk over his shoulder. They share that morbid humor and he does adore her for it.

But after that, it's a glance over the sluggish river, before taking a step in. When nothing immediately tried to gnaw his foot off, another. And so it follows as he crosses the water, until something changes, or he reaches the other side. ]