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

[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. ]