I LIKED TEVINTER WHEN IT WAS STILL UNDERGROUND | Closed

[wythersake]

WHO: Hanzo, D'Artagnan + Alistair, Jester, Marcoulf, Nathaniel, Newt, Rey.
WHAT: Rescue.
WHEN: This year of our lord 9:44.
WHERE: The Deep Roads.
NOTES: Plotting Post

I'll be making some headers in a second here, but feel free to make your own. I'm not your boss.

Comments

THE DEPTHS | solo threads, do whatever, #YOLO

[wythersake]

The Deep Roads are a web of light.

Of darkness, too — for every cavern lit by the pale luminescence of fungus and lyrium, there's a twin hewn into shade. The old highways steep with pockets of black too thick for even torch-flame to penetrate, corruption seeped from the rock to collect in still and filthy pools.

Touching these isn’t advised. Neither is uncovering your mouth, or straying from the group. Things rustle in the corners of sound and sight: Chitter, scratch, flap. The Thaigs bred giant spiders, or so the stories go. Bred them to eat the bats.

Those fleeing the Imperium will find gate after gate blocked, paths to the surface sealed by heavy Dwarven fortification (the solemn faces of men and women long dead), else rubbled rock and open chasm. Runes mark waypoints, but the scrape of claws and years have worn most into illegibility.

That’s alright. The Darkspawn don’t seem to need directions — or sleep, or anything but pursuit and the relentless dark.

They’ve company coming. The Inquisition reinforcements have their own obstacles to contend with: A herd of blind, albino cave brontos has taken up residence through a wide stretch of tunnels. They're pretty cute. It's a shame they aren’t pleased to see you.

RENDEZVOUS + FFFIGHT | Group Log

[wythersake]

There’s a hum beneath the earth.

At the edge of the mind — difficult to say where imagination ends, and true sound begins. A few days of this, and your senses play tricks on you: Step after trudging step through the darkness, dead-bored, waiting for something to make you just plain dead.

But it’s been getting louder for a while now; music, or the murmur of a child. They’re close to the others: Hanzo and D'Artagnan could be around any given corner, and doubtless with Darkspawn in tow. It's been a few days. Your senses play tricks.

From the back of the group, Isaac's staff gleams with dull light, steady as it has since this little adventure began. Steady, until something slams into the back of his head. It flares, throwing loose flame as he smashes into the cavern wall and down. The misshapen thing on his shoulders gives a warbling cry through half-crushed jaws, raises its broken blade with a peculiar reverence to strike.

It’s not alone.

BRIDGE TO TERROR-ABYSS-IA + BOATS | whatever you feel like doing

[wythersake]

There's entering the Deep Roads. There's surviving the Deep Roads. And then there's getting back out again.

Like, whatever, man. It's a journey, not a sprint — especially right now, sprinting right now would be a very bad idea.

The bridge before them spans a vast expanse of emptiness: A great impossible hole in the bottom of the world. It's thin, crumbled for the years, slick with the rot of its own rope guides. Poles scatter, the remains of what must have once been more frequent use.

It's single file or nothing; this path wasn't sized for human feet. Human bones, however, fit perfectly. A cracked skull here, a ribcage there, tiny teeth carpet the way. Better not to think about what might have left them.

Daylight waits not far beyond. Daylight, and the promise of mere mortal peril. The waterways of Orlais are pleasant this time of year, would be more so, if not choked by suspicious eyes and the debris of war. The ferrymen charge an exorbitant price; pay up — or beg, borrow, requisition, and steal your way into passage back to Val Chevin.