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

[elegiaque]

The commitment to the research was the Inquisition's and his division would have to do it, but— ( she understands that even as she hates it; the commitment had been made in the previous negotiations, the fact of the new ones that adalia will soon be setting out on hinged upon it, there was no getting out from under the fact someone would have to try. therefore keeping it quiet had to be done, as far as that went, because iorveth is right too—if everyone had known it had been done already, what chaos.

but not telling her, first.

but making it his own. they couldn't have tried it on a rifted animal? they wanted to know whether it would even work on someone through a rift not a mage, after all, animals aren't mages—

not telling her. iorveth is right to worry about the rifters, but gwenaëlle can't help but look to her own future, and past the phylacteries; is this what her marriage will look like? is this what her life is going to be, having to hope that her husband will deign to inform her the direction that he's chosen for their lives after he's already done it? the phylactery is not insurmountable, but that might be, and that had been what had weighed heaviest when adalia had shouted her own demands—it's no better to respond with the same behaviour. there's no path forward from that that they can walk together, if she starts undermining him, too.

but she's always known of these elves. she will always matter less than their plans. she'd only thought not to feel it so acutely, and so soon.

she swallows the rest of what she might have said as he bids adalia join them, though considering what she imagines she must be coming to apologize for, it may not be the breather he's hoping for—she lets her hands fall from his hair, fingers curling around her comb, neither hiding the casual intimacy of the moment nor offering any new explanation for it. she is disinclined, presently, to explain herself in much of anything.

she could offer some sort of greeting, at least, but she doesn't. she looks up, steady, not expectant. )

[thunderproof]

❰ adalia enters the tent and manages, just barely, not to look between iorveth and gwenaëlle as though they've both grown an extra head. she acknowledges iorveth with a tight smile and a little wave, but her focus is on gwenaëlle, trying not to look like... like she's trying to figure out how to manage her, or like she's still angry, or like any of the things she's really feeling.

it's getting really tiring, this having to apologize all the time thing.

deep breath. keep it simple. ❱

I'm sorry. Your husband, your business.

❰ other than the fact that thranduil making the phylactery affects so many more people than just him and gwen... in the end, gwenaëlle was angry at her husband, and adalia nudged her into revealing why. she should have at least held onto her anger long enough to vent it at iorveth or solas instead, someone who could actually do something about it without betraying their spouse, rather than try to tell gwen what to do.

not all of which, perhaps, will be conveyed in four words. but she can expand if she needs to. ❱

[aenseidhe]

[ Ah. So we are continuing the theme of Thranduil being an idiot. Unfortunately, Iorveth has nothing nice to say on the topic at the moment, and he'd rather not be a poor example for Adalia.

That, and, this apology is for Gwenaelle. it isn't his to comment on, thus Iorveth keeps his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself, casting a look back over his shoulder at Gwen, making it clear he's keeping his peace for the time being. ]

[elegiaque]

( for the moment would not be a productive thing to say on any level, not least of which because it might give adalia some hope that there actually is a possibility of him ever not being, instead of just being one of those awful things that comes out of gwenaëlle's mouth sometimes when she thinks words and then says them.

so she doesn't say that. she does say, ) I'm glad someone thinks it's my business, ( because she is still angry, and half her frustration with adalia had been coloured by feeling backed into the corner of having to defend someone she still keeps lingeringly envisioning strangling with his own hair.

her business. she has no idea what the fuck she's going to do about it. that's most of why she isn't in kirkwall, where she might have to decide. she will have to decide, but she wants to go and do anything else, for a while—

a terrible reason to be here, but there have probably been worse.

eventually, )

Thank you.