Entry tags:

Simple Gifts [Closed]

WHO: Galadriel, Thranduil, Solas, Myrobalan, Merrill, Kitty, Lakshmi, Teren, Marcoulf, Jang, Obi-Wan, and Anders
WHAT: A trip to a perfectly normal Chantry in the middle of nowhere.
WHEN: Current.
WHERE: The Island of Alamar, Ferelden.
NOTES: Current warnings, to be updated: Graphic Descriptions of Gore

The Abbey on the White Cliff

Travel to the Abbey on the White Cliff is no easy matter. While it stands not far from Amaranthine, the waters between the mainland and the island shores are a wicked confluence of eddies and razor sharp rock. The rain is ever-present here and the wind moves unpredictably at the best of times. Ships of size cannot travel easily to the island of Alamar and small boats are rarely steady through the choppy water. Fortunately, as the Inquisition approaches, the world takes some pity on them and the waters seem to still and calm. The clouds linger but, at the very least, they don't open above them until they have reached the land.

The island is a grey affair, all rocks and scrub and damp. The village, an austere looking outcropping of buildings, is entirely made from the local stone and, were it not for the red clay roofing, would blend into the landscape seamlessly. Very few people have strayed into the rain to greet the Inquisition and, without the voices to echo off the stone, most sound is drowned in the lapping of waves and the heavy fall of rain. As a result of the weather and the lack of citizens, the town has the general quality of a graveyard.

The merchants who work the docks are affable enough and, after unloading their haul and securing it somewhere a bit drier, offer to take the Inquisition up to the Abbey proper. The rain slows before long and the merchants lead the Inquisition to the main roads and, let them on their way. Fortunately, the Island is not terribly large and, even walking, it will take only a few hours to arrive at the far side of it.

As the party leaves the village and the shore, the island landscape opens before them. Sloping moors give way to periodic outcroppings of rock and, against the horizon and the far end of the island, there rests a dark forest of pines. The Abbey on the White Cliff stands at the far side, at the top of the hill and overlooking the waves. The road they travel is an easy one, well worn, and the buildings come into view long before they reach them--they stand several stories tall, made of the same stone as the village. They are moss-covered and have the look of an old building that has been questionably kept--at least, from a distance.

The closer one gets to the buildings, the more obvious the additions and repairs become. Windows that have no business holding glass have had colorful windows inset to them. The doors are heavy, wooden, and new. The ironwork on the walls is polished and unworn by the rain. There are no torches lit but, once the Inquisition members have reached the doors, they open promptly.

They are greeted by a Chantry Sister with a bright smile and rosy cheeks and, without hesitation, the lot of them are welcomed into the Abbey.

OOC:

Hey guys! So I plan on aggressively GMing this one. Basically I want to run this like D&D, or as near as I can manage.

The location threads below are available for single player/two player exploration, I will be tagging you with information based on where you go or what you do, but if you want to do a bigger thread please just use the team threads at the bottom. That way if you all decide you want to check out the [INSERT LOCATION HERE] and it leads you to [DIFFERENT LOCATION] I can move you along without changing threads.

Because of your proficiencies, different characters will have advantages in different areas/while talking to different people, so groups are best. I will also be PMing your character journal periodically with any information that your character may have picked up on that nobody else would.

The NPCs are available for talking to or questioning by any number of people. Their general locations are in their thread headers so you can travel there as a crew or ask me to send them at you, if you so desire.

Feel free to do new top-levels if you guys really want, I am just here to try and make this fun.

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"Ah, I see. That would be the sounds behind us, then?"

He lifts his head, looking around, letting himself drink in the obvious repairs. Now that he's looking properly he realises that there are some changers taking place and, perhaps, he should have spent more time looking at them. He feels a little foolish, but he can admit to being distracted.

"Do you think I might be able to see? A base of ours needs some repair work done and it would be good to see masters at work."

At that request, some of Brigette's enthusiasm fades. Her smile drops to concern and she looks at him, momentarily at a loss for how to explain. It comes to her after a moment and she spares a glance over her shoulder at the doors.

"The Reverend Mother has discouraged us from that, just letting people wander in there," she says and fidgets a bit. "It's very dangerous, you see, a large tree fell across it during a storm and the roof is not stable just yet."

"I can protect myself," Solas says with a small smile. "If the danger is something to be cautious of I will cast a barrier. It should be enough to protect me from wayward trees and bricks that might become hazardous."

It's not a lie - his magic can take care of that - and even admitting that a base needs work isn't a falsehood; Skyhold could use some repair. What Solas wants is to see who these people are and what they are doing with this place, curious about strangers that appear masters of their craft ready to aid something as distant as this place.

"I would appreciate a glimpse, even if it is only for a short time."

Brigette considers him again, and the staff at his back, and relents. She knows precious little about magecraft and, if he is telling the truth, he will be fine. She has every confidence in Herkle and Merkle and neither of them are mages.

"Alright, but please be cautious," she says and moves to the doors. She unbars them for him and, with some effort, pushes one open. She holds it until he is across and then slides it shut and bars it once more.

Beyond the door there is a wide, stepped chamber that drops downward opens to a forum and a stage. There was once a podium on that stage, a place for the Reverend Mother to read from the Chant to the gathered Sisters, to teach and sing, but that podium is in pieces and scattered on the ground.

The ceiling, a high domed affair, is bowed inward, near to crumbling. The tree that fell and collapsed the roof has been nearly removed, cut away until only the trunk remains, jutting through the wall like a massive spike. The sky opens above the stage now, pouring rain down into the room, and the water is kept at bay by little more than several sheets of strung canvas.

Below the canvas, in the center of the room, a massive rift cleaves the air and space in two, splitting and shifting, folding in on itself and casting brackish, watery green light over the walls. It moves sluggishly, unlike normal rifts, ebbing and flowing like the waters of a wide river, as though it has been stifled and slowed.

Around the rift there stands an array of scaffolding, fitted and secured, bracing the ceiling and the floor, and holding tools and mounted pieces of an archway and triptych. The rift is being framed, celebrated, and it is not violent enough to tear these things apart.

The room is neither empty, nor silent, despite all the chaos it should be filled with. The sounds of hissing and crackling magic are drowned out by hammering and conversation. Carpenters are at work, setting up the golden arch that will frame the rift and, despite the horror of it, they are not at all afraid.

His eyes are immediately drawn to the Rift and he sucks in a breath, staring forward, not knowing what to do with himself. Of all the things he had expected to see this had not been one of them, and to see a Rift framed in gold and splendour, to see the arch being built around it... It makes him even more uncomfortable, even more on edge, the sharp lines of his face twisting into disapproval before he can even take a step forward.

He knows about the Rifts, of course he does. He knows about the danger. This... This is something he cannot fathom.

Stepping forward, he lets his eyes drink it in, lets himself stare at the shape of it for a long time. It's far less deadly than some of the others of its kind he has seen in the time since the Breach opened, and there's an edge of something curious about him as his head tilts. It's slowed, almost gentled, and he cannot put mind to word what might have caused it. He wants to know what is happening here, what has been done, why these people are accepting it, but... It would not be the first time.

The sister has closed the door. He is alone, with these craftsmen, building this altar to a Rift that should never have come to be.

Walking forward, he looks around, waiting to see if anyone would note him - and, if they do, what they might say to a stranger walking amongst them, clearly not happy.

It isn't until Solas crosses paths with someone carrying a load that he is even acknowledged. The man calls out--'behind' as he skirts behind the elf, glowering--and then one of the carpenters working on the tryptic itself stops to look down at him. The man is dour, large, and middle-aged. His hands are dusted in flecks of gold and glue from his work leafing the wood.

"You there," he calls, his tone stern as he moves off the scaffolding and slides down the ladder. He is before Solas in a few moments. His beard is more dramatic up close.

"You come to help or get in the way?"

It's a curious thing - all these people seem comfortable with the Rift, no fear in their movements, their eyes, how they handle themselves, in anything. To Solas this should be a place to cause hysteria, but the Rift is calm, and there seems to be no sign of demons. The only ills that this Abbey has been hold are the sick, the wounded, and he's not sure if there is a link between the two.

The Rift is quiet. Content, almost, as if it is close to being closed without the input of the Inquisition. Is this why they had been invited? Is this what the source of it all? The magic here, he thinks, is like pressure on his shoulders, and he's not sure if they should get involved with closing it for fear of what it might do - both with the magic and with the people.

"That depends," Solas says, spoken carefully but with a sternness that comes from years of practice. "What would I be helping with?"

If nothing else, the carpenter seems to approve of Solas's hedged response and stern tone. He nods and there is a slight shift in how he holds himself, some slight approval in the set of his shoulders. He looks Solas over and considers him a moment.

"What can you do?" Merkle asks and folds his arms over his barrel chest. The man is likely descended from Avvar, his size is so considerable. "Need help moving that tree out of here, if you've got the skill to do that."

He glances at the staff on Solas's back and jerks his head toward the massive pine that has caved in part of the building.

"If not, and you've a taste for fine craftsmanship, we're finishing the leaf and detail carving on the arch. Want it ready for the Reverend Mother and her little elf friend."

Solas doesn't care much for their approval, at least, and he keeps himself steady and stern as his eyes drink in the man before him. At least he is making progress, he thinks, and that says something; he didn't expect to get anywhere with this but it seems he is being welcomed more than he had anticipated.

"I might be able to assist." He will not make promises he can't keep, at least, and his eyes flick around the room. He's uncomfortable with the proximity of the Rift, with everything that is happening here, but he cannot let the others be aware of it. It would not be beneficial.

The rest of it makes him turn back, though, head tilted.

"Her elf friend?"

Merkle grunts and gestures with one arm as he starts back toward the rift, it is clear he has taken Solas's comment and question as agreement and that he wants to work as they talk. He stops by the ladder and shoots Solas an appraising look.

"Afraid of heights?" He prompts and, while he waits for a response, continues their previous conversation.

"The blind elf, real friendly one, made Brigette cry, that one. He's getting his eyes fixed."

Walking forward, Solas approaches the tree without too much hesitation. It shouldn't take too much effort to lift the tree and move it somewhere else. The question is whether or he feels as though it's the right thing for him to do, all things considered.

"No, not at all." There are worse things to be afraid of, he thinks, more dangerous things. There is worse in the world compared to heights, he thinks, but he nods his head, beginning to examine the tree.

"Ah, yes. He made Brigette cry? I wasn't aware." But - "Eyes fixed?"

Merkle watches as Solas moves to confront the remains of the tree and makes no move to instruct him.

"Accident, or so I figure. She gets upset when she sees blind folk, reminds her of when she was blind. Reverend Mother Alvar promised to restore his eyes just like Brigette's. Figure she'd do it later today."

Shifting, Solas begins to cast his magic, summoning the power of it around him even as he continues to speak to the other man. This is something that is relvent to his interests, of course, but he doesn't want to make it seem as though he is demanding or prying.

"And how does she propose to do that? What is enough to restore sight to the blind?"

"Can't says I know how it works, casting Miracles is business between the Reverend Mother, Andraste, and the Maker, but she'll manage it."

Merkle watches Solas a moment longer and then whistles up the ladder at someone. His toolkit is tossed down to him and he catches it with some ease. He then moves to stand by the elf as he summons 0ower and bends it around the fallen tree.

"He'll be able to see again, though, no question."

Solas pulls with his magic, lifting the tree with his strength and moving it out of the way, twisting his fingers as he goes. It's a grand display, if nothing else, but it doesn't take must effort or energy.

"I have never seen a miracle happen before," Solas says quietly. "I did not think that anyone might have that kind of power, not anymore. It's something of a story."

Merkle grunts in vague agreement, as though he understands Solas's point. He watches as the massive tree is lifted free and as Solas maneuvers it out of the room. It is an impressive display.

"That would have taken a week to cut apart by hand. Good work." He doesn't clap Solas on the back but it is a near thing.

"You'll definitely see this one. Reverend Mothers always hold their last miracles in here. Tradition."

He doesn't comment on the compliment - it was a thing easily done with a touch of magic and he doesn't think it particularly impressive. All he does is tilt his head, curious and interested in learning more, in questioning, in hearing the truth of this situation.

"So they come here to perform one then give their life?" Solas raises a brow.

Merkle frowns a bit as he regards Solas, unaccustomed to so many questions in a row. He hums a d cocks a brow at the elf.

"Impatient one, are you?" He posits and scrubs a hand through his beard. "Callous way to be talking about the end of a person's life, but aye, that is what happens."

"Curious, not impatient." Solas shakes his head, crossing his arms behind his back and shaking his head. He wants to appear curious, not untoward, and he breathes out.

"She is the one to ask about the Rift, then?"

"Aye, if she's the energy to speak to you about it."

Merkle nods and gestures at the doors again.

"Brigette knows the way to her apartments."

"I will see if she has the time to speak with me, then." Solas nods his head. "Thank you. Are you here for long?"

"I certainly hope so," he says dryly. "Don't much plan on leaving until I die."

With that, Merkle gives Solas a last, mildly suspicious look and then returns to his work. From that point the other carpenters ignore him and several scramble to start repairing the hole where the tree had just been.

It doesn't take long after that for Solas to abort his investigation into the carpentry and make his way back into the main hall. He thinks he knows the way to the Reverend Mother, but he wants to take the path slowly, to make sure he does not bring more attention to himself than he already has. He thinks that rumour might spread of him sooner or later, so he smiles at the gatekeeper as he walks by, taking a slow pace out of the room.

His path leads him to the Reverend Mother next, but he does not want to be accusatory. He is curious about the Rift, curious about the worship of it, and wary of what it might mean for this place, and there's a weight to him as he goes, making his way to her quietly.

Solas comes upon Alvar in the garden, as she often is, and they are alone. There is a break in the storm as she lingers outside, but it is a small reprieve and the rain still drizzles on the periphery. She walks among the plants, her steps idle and looping and with the distracted quality of someone who knows they are not long for the world.

She notices him as he comes upon her and smiles, though there it something to it that is hard to name. It is a nearly knowing quality and one that doesn't fade as she bids him come over.

"A fine day," she declares when everything around her seems to indicate quite the opposite. She looks him over once and then turns her attention to the tomato plant before her. It is in perfect health and beautiful beyond reason.

There's something strange, immediately, about her, and Solas doesn't know what to say about it. She's not like any of the other people he has met here nor is she like any other Mother or Sister of the chantry he has been privy to. No, there is something of an edge to her, something that makes her feel a touch awkward to be around, and Solas has to try and decide what that means.

At least she seems pleasant enough, and the reception is not one that is making him feel as though he is prying or pushing somewhere he ought not to be, which is more than he could ask for. He is used to not being welcomed, used to being shunned because of what he says and does, and used to being shunned for his race.

It is nice to be welcomed even the smallest amount, and it is sad that this brings him glad tidings.

"Some might say so," he agrees. "I came to speak with you, if you have the time."

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