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

[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. ]