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Simple Gifts [Closed] - Part 2

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: Mild Gore

The Abbey on the White Cliff

Around noon on the fourth day, Brigette and the other sisters gather up the people of the Abbey. Everyone who can walk, who can stand, is urged to join them in the auditorium--the doors at the end of the main hall are thrown open and the people welcomed in. Today Reverend Mother Alvar will be enacting her final miracle and, in the grand tradition of this Abbey, the people are invited to behold and take joy in the sight of it. They are encouraged to be there for the end of the previous Reverend Mother's life, just as they are encouraged to welcome the new Reverend Mother, Luca, as she assumes her new position.

The auditorium is a wide, stepped chamber that drops downward into an open forum and stage. The roof is high and domed and was once constructed of the same grey stone as everything else on the island. It was caved in at some point, destroyed by a falling tree, but it has been patched over with wood and canvas. The extensive scaffolding speaks volumes of how much effort has gone into restoring this room, but all of it stands still and empty in preparation for the ceremony.

Above the center of the stage, in the very middle of the room, visible from all angles, there is a great green tear in the veil--a massive rift cleaves the room in two. It churns sluggishly, ebbing and twisting, muted under the weight of whatever pall hangs across this Abbey. Around the rift there is a golden arch--the wood is carved into flames and swords and papered over in hammered gold leaf. Behind the rift there is a triptych depicting scenes from the Chant and each is lovingly painted and framed in gold.

The room is filled with chaos, but not of the sort one would expect in the shadow of a rift. The people who meander in, the pilgrims who take up the seats near to the stage at the base of the steps, all of them are smiling, all of them are happy, some are weeping tears of joy or remorse, but all of them are entirely unsurprised by the rift's presence. They take no issue lingering near it. Praise is heaped upon the carpenters for their diligence in finishing the arch, songs are sung softly as everyone gathers, and eventually the room is prompted to recite from the Chant as Alvar comes to the center of the stage. She is frail and those who spoke with her earlier will see how she has aged--twenty years in a day, it seems--and she leans heavily on Luca until she moves apart to stand on her own.

Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.
In my arms lies Eternity.

When she speaks the Chant, for a moment, her voice sounds youthful again--no older than Luca's--but it is fleeting and before the end she is breathless and thin once more.

OOC:

Hey everyone, this is part 2! I will be posting an initial thread for this scene that will be a free for all, but feel free to start a thread beneath the Ceremony Header if you want. Below I will be reposting the updated areas and people links, same as the previous post.

New Top-levels are welcomed, as always, but if you have questions please hit me up.

This section will contain the rest of this plot, unless we skyrocket to too many tags for me to keep them straight.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Alvar crumples to the ground in a way that no living thing should ever manage to--and, in truth, has not--for she is dead long before her body touches the floor. She lands in a boneless heap, like a shattered glass, and as she collapses the Abbey changes around them.

The heavy curtain of magic that has muffled the Fade, that has strengthened or weakened the spells of mages and stifled the air in this place draws back with Alvar's death. The chill in the air, a notable but normal variety of cold, if pervasive in its absoluteness, is suddenly far, far worse. It changes into a truly biting cold that burns through the air and prickles the lungs that breathe it. There is a shadow to air now, an oil-slick sense of darkness that lives in that cold, the chill of hopeless winter nights, and it rises up as Alvar hits the floor.

The canvas in the roof pulls and shifts violently as the winds off the ocean picks up force; the pounding of the rain is deafening, the dripping of water along the walls is a cascade, and the storm above is a brilliant cacophony of sound. The Abbey had been muted before, stable and calm, but now it is caught in a maelstrom. What defenses had been drawn around this place have faded and, as the last of them fall, the Rift in the center of the room becomes violent. Luca takes Myr by the arm then and draws him back, into the shadow of the archway.

The marks in the hands of the rifters gutter and spark to life as the Rift awakens. It twists and tears at the fabric of the air, at the veil around it, and lashes and spits power in bright, scalding bolts that smolder where they connect with the floor, with the ceiling, and with the decorations around it. It cracks like thunder and lightning, the violence of the storm outside mirrored in it, and it is only a split second before demons issue forth from its depths.

There is a deep, terrible cackle, metal grinding against stone accompanied by the flavor of ozone and copper on the air. A pride demon materializes on the stage then and as the very stones seem to quake under the weight of it, a second follows. Wisps pour forth, bursting from the gaps between the demons and try to take form, to twist into shades and walk free on this side of the veil--but as they appear the cold in the room becomes truly terrible.

The temperature plummets sharply until the air is dangerous to breathe--the crowd of pilgrims all hold their shirts over their noses, covering their mouths, and remain quiet and awed as they watch the horrors that unfold before them. They are not panicked, they are not even frightened--but they should be. The spirits that have come through the rift have summoned something to this room.

It comes out of the air, as if stepping out of a dream. An invisible creature moving from the fog of the spaces beyond into this one. It is tall and hideous, a shadow nearly ten feet high, stretched thin and upright, blackened and clad in bits of armor, in tattered vestments, wielding a massive sword made in bending, improbable shapes.

At first there is one.

It moves through the crowd, ignoring the pilgrims, the people, the living, all of its attention on the demons. Where its feet touch the ground a sheet of ice gathers. The outline of its armored feet are burned into the stone in white. It drags its sword as it approaches the demon and, with an arching swing, slams the blade down across the creature.

It catches it in the shoulder and suddenly the demon's full attention is on the wraith. Then, as the demon moves to strike back, another wraith manifests along the wall nearby. It swings and strikes the second demon in the gut--and the combat begins.

It is a clash of titans in a pressure-pot, an explosion waiting to happen, and scattered all around the feet of both wraith and demon are people. Obi-Wan focuses on practical things; he's on his feet and shouting above the noise, as soon as the rift stirs, un-lit lightsaber in hand, full of certainty that doesn't need a Jedi's training to interpret.

But he's... the only one. The rest of the room sits rapt, unconcerned, as if the fight in front of them were no more than a stage-play, put on for their benefit. Obi-Wan looks around in confusion, feeling a sour, unpleasant dissonance in it all.

Wrong. Wrong, this was all wrong. That much is not in question.

A pride demon is unpredictable, enormous, and has terrible reach. People will die, if they stay, people should fear dying, if they stay. Obi-Wan doesn't intend to leave; he doesn't know what the wraiths are, but. A rift. He looks to the nearest of the Inquisition in uncertainty; what is going on here?

"What is this."

It is great and terrible and the sort to make one despair, but all Thranduil thinks, standing there, serene as anything with his hands held before him, is ah.

He owes Solas an apology, at the very least, for what he said in his heart if not with his lips, for doubting and wondering in weak moments, how could you. Here. Here was how, the sort of accidents that lead to stewardship of a thing-

Obi-Wan courteously interrupts his wool-gathering. He speaks low, in a voice that ought not carry beyond the little knot of Inquisition members. "We will make an offer to close it after. After.

The demons and the wraiths capture Solas' attention more than anything else, and he's drawn from the ceremony - the thing that had knotted his stomach and made him impossibly uncomfortable the entire time - to focus on those. He doesn't want to accept any of this, to see before him the fruit of Myrobalan's faith, but there is no denying it.

The demons, however, the demons, and Solas knew it was here. He knew of the Rift, knew of what was happening here, and the nausea makes him paler than usual, his eyes sharp and intent as he looks at it all. It needs to be closed, he thinks, it needs to be shut and destroyed completely, but...

He breathes out, stepping forward. "I cannot ignore this any longer," to Thranduil.

Edited 2018-09-22 20:10 (UTC)

The demons strike at the wraiths while Luca and Myr linger too near to them--the wraiths shriek at the bands of electricity as they are struck, twisting away from them, but their reach is not short and their numbers, it turns out, are much more significant.

Another wraith steps from the air, coalesing in the crowd. Wisps that move near the stage are split in two and a fourth, a fifth wraith appear in the wake of their violence. Each is drawn to the demons in the center of the room, and with each wraith the room becomes markedly less hospitable.

Pride demons are not easily defeated, not generally, but those long blades arc through the air and the demons cannot block them all. One slash is turned away and, as it does, another three catch the first demon in the side. They rip through it, tearing skin and bone and the construct of its form apart.

The people in the first rows cheer, delighted, and the wraith's attention is drawn like moths to flame--they converge on the second demon, descend on it like feral wolves, and its guttural growl is drowned out by their high shrieking sounds as they rend it into pieces. It is a gruesome sight to behold and one that garners polite applause from the pilgrims who have gathered.

Once their task it done, the wraiths go still. They freeze in place and their empty hoods, adorned only with the shadows that permeate them, turn toward the rift. They are waiting.

It's freezing now, and Merrill wishes - not for the first time since coming to this island - that she'd worn shoes. It's too late for that now, though. It seems too late for a great many thing as living shadows with strange weapons attack the demons pouring from the rift, as the people of the Abbey and the pilgrims who have come to it simply stand and watch. She pulls her scarf up over her nose and mouth just as the pilgrims have, letting the heat of her body warm the air so that breathing it doesn't hurt so much.

People smarter than her will ask what will happen if the offer to close the rift is refused. Merrill doesn't worry on that; she can't close rifts, anyway. But she stares, wide-eyed, at the scene before them. She remembers Audacity, and she remembers Marethari, and Justice, and she wonders (not for the first time) if the ends justify the means.

"By the Dread Wolf," she whispers, knuckles white as she grips her staff. The magic that had been over the Abbey is broken, and in its absence, Merrill can tell how truly powerful it had been. All of it together is enough to make her tremble, gaze darting to the door - but there is nowhere to run, to hide. This entire island is under this spell, or the lack of it, or this spell that another spell had hidden, or- she isn't certain. She knows only that these great shadows were in the woods, also, and that she is a Dalish girl in a place that represents a religion that has, historically, treated her people like vermin.

If they turn their attention from the demons and the rift to her, it wouldn't surprise her in the least. They're content with waiting for more demons for now, it seems, but she moves closer to the rest of the Inquisition's entourage anyway. The crowd is cheering, applauding - are they all blind? Are they all stupid?

"What do we do?"

Edited 2018-09-22 20:28 (UTC)

Separated from the rest of the Inquisition team by a gulf of monsters, Myr huddles beside Luca wide-eyed and uncomprehending. The Maker, it seems, has a sense of humor; his last view of the waking world wasn't so unlike this and now he is plunged into the Void's chaos again by a genuine miracle. (Of course it would come round in every point exactly: Mercy undoes the bands of justice, unweaves the irrevocable choice from end to start so the transgressor could try again.

In that first moment where he registers what he's seeing he laces his fingers together tight behind him, to keep them still, keep them away from his face. Precaution only: Mad as the sight is, that madness has no power over him, to burrow deep and make the unthinkable the only rational option. Yet he doesn't trust himself in that; some wounds hadn't been touched by Alvar's gift.)

He isn't used to cold so profound it cuts the lungs and turns each breath to blood. He sees the others cover their faces without processing what it must mean; draws in a too-deep breath that crackles in his lungs and loses seconds to a coughing fit stifled in both hands. The warm air drawn over his palms provides some relief once he's recovered though by then he's breathless enough that everything seems all the more unreal. Useful, that, he realizes dimly: His first instinct on being around a pride demon should be to draw down a barrier from the Fade, but that seems--

"Do you wish for more adventure, for demons or spirits to linger here?"

"No demons haunt our steps...that I promise you."

--deeply unwise. They knew, he thinks dimly, cutting a look toward Luca before considering the celebrating abbeyfolk again.

They knew they were safe all along.

That more than anything upsets the tidy story of the abbey he'd written for himself; he closes his smarting eyes against the enormity of it.

"How long will they--" The words dissolve into a clotted noise; he jerks his head toward the wraiths. How long will that go on, he means; and why do they have faces like women? he wants to ask, but cannot bring the words together through numbing shock.

The days of stress and lying awake and pacing finally caught up with Teren in the form of her actually finally falling into a deep sleep for a good long while.
She's looking unusually rested as she approaches the room containing the ceremony, and a shiver passes over her skinny form as cold wafts from within. That doesn't seem right. There are definitely sounds coming from inside, terrible-sounding ones, but there's no actual screaming, so... maybe it's a play?

She's not naive enough to think that, but she wants to.
Pulling open one of the heavy doors, Teren peers inside and sees firsthand the pandemonium: the rift, the wraiths, the demons, the crowd sitting there like it's a Sunday picnic, the baffled rifters.
After taking several seconds to mull it over, she closes the door again.

They have enough Rifters to attempt to close the thing, and they have Solas, who Thranduil is quite sure ought to be able to hold off the worst of this. Between their mages and the otherwise armed, he thinks they might manage, given that the wraiths will be no weaker than when they finish fighting the demons.

He regrets his earlier folly in asking for restraint. How could they show it. Best they move as a group, before the veil falls back in place that would silence the Rift.

He cries out, a bitten off whimper as right hand grabs the wrist of the left, which glows green. His face twists in pain as he holds it up as if it was yanked on a string, involuntary, shard sparking. It is not the Anchor, to close Rifts alone, but with a handful of others with him, playing along--

-- and none in the Abbey have seen the process of closing one before.

It is true, none in the Abbey has ever seen what Thranduil is doing and, at his cry, they turn to look upon him, curious and worried in a way they had not been until that moment. They see his hand and stare, blank and without understanding. The rift responds to Thranduil's mark, to the pull of it and, unfortunately, so too do the creatures.

Their heads swivel in unison, dark hoods facing and focused on the shape of the tall elf. The rest of their bodies jerk in kind, pulling them into alignment so they can move. The crowd panics, then, and several people rise from their seats--not to run, but to move and intercept. Already they are babbling assurances, words jittery with speed as they rush to the aid of the Inquisition.

Unfortunately, this is not all of the wraiths and the area around Thranduil floods with a terrible dark and brittle cold as another steps from the air before him.

On the stage, Luca panics. She scrambles past Myr and all but dives to Alvar's corpse. There is a moment's pause and she pulls something from her and puts it on herself, an almost imperceptible move in the chaos. As the wraiths begin to maifest around the Inquisition members, attention trained on Thranduil, she throws up a hand and shouts:

"Please! Stop, I beg you!" Her voice is desperate--it is less a command than begging, and it is not clear to whom she speaks. The wraiths slow in their advance but, if the strain that slides onto Luca's face is any indication, she cannot prevent their progress for long.

Solas moves immediately to Thranduil's side, no pause in his step as he draws his staff. A barrier is easy enough to cast, drawing it around himself and the members of the Inquisition with practiced movements, making sure they are protected as much as possible from the wraiths and any stray magic. The Rift needs to be closed, Solas knows that, and it pains him that it is his dear friend who is taking the first step; he can only hope the other Rifters might be swift to catch up and offer their own aid.

His eyes cast around, drinking in the others, alert and anxious as he tries to think of the best tactic for the scenario. He cannot aid with the Rifts, as much as he would like to be able to, so his focus needs to be on making sure the others are protected and taken care of. He must ensure their safety, as is his role; he is there to support, to defend, to attack if the wraiths begin to cause problems --

But Luca takes command and his eyes turn to her, lips twisting into a frown. Solas has not been happy the entire time they have been here and it seems likely that his unhappiness will continue.

"The Rift must be closed!" He shouts, mostly to the Inquisition members. "Quickly, before more come through!"

Obi-Wan's response is uncertain, his instinct at first to hold back, be patient, and survey, but Thranduil is closer and when Solas casts, he steps in line as well. Duty is clear, of course; they can have only one purpose here.

"I'm with you!" Obi-Wan replies at volume, both to Solas, who he barely knows, and to Thranduil who he has often trusted in the past. He raises his hand and the spark leaps as a bright and vivid green, so that he must grit his teeth against bone-ache and the sizzling heart of it, and press with all his trained will on the Rift, as he had the first time, knee-deep in the snow, and no more Rifters than these to help him, "Come on! Together!"

That had been a smaller Rift, of course. And newer. He can only hope— pray that they will be enough, and Luca's pleas be damned.

He doesn't know who the sister is pleading to stop... and he can't bring himself to care if it's them. The pilgrims are, of course, taken in. But the Inquisition will not be.

...or some of it won't be.

Anders moves from the back where he'd been lurking, watching with no little suspicion, and he spreads a healing mist around the Inquisition members nearby, Merrill, Solas, Thranduil, and Obi-Wan.

"I have you," he says with cold determination.

Neither has Myr seen the process of closing a rift--

--but he does know the shape a barrier makes in the Fade; he knows something like these creatures lurks in the abandoned dormitory in the woods; he knows what summoning spirits attracts. He leaps off the stage after Luca, drawing his staff down off his back without the faintest idea of what he'll do with it, only--

"Don't--!"

There is only the barest pause between Solas casting and Luca's scream. Her face twists in agony and she drops to her knees, clutching at her hand. The wraiths move freely, their attention drawn sharply to Solas, and then to the rifters that rise at his side. They draw their blades in unison, those who do not carry them dragging along the ground at their backs, and with a terrible series of shrieking cries, they attack.

A twisted greatsword falls in a heavy arc against the barrier Solas has pulled around them--it bounces away, clips against the wall and splinters of stone are broken off in the process. Unfortunately the onslaught of blows is not over with one. Two more wraiths strike in quick succession and their blows twist away as well. They swing with unnatural strength, enough to rend limbs from demons, to rip stone from the walls, and the fourth attack shatters the barrier into pieces. The sword comes down alongside Solas, deflected to a degree, and gouges a deep trail into the floor.

The wraith before Thranduil rises up, sword held aloft, but its motion is halted as one of the pilgrims at the Abbey moves between it and the elf. All around the room, the pilgrims are diving into the paths of the wraiths, grabbing at their cloaks and armor, begging them for reason and mercy. The pilgrims cry out, each wraith is called Reverend Mother, and each hesitates for a strange, jarring second as they are beseeched. They are distracted, but only just, and those who are not held back by the hands of the faithful move with a strange, jerking speed, lurching forward in bursts.

The walls have already begun to freeze with the cold of them all, and it is only getting colder as more appear.

Jang is not moving, watching the wraiths swarm, and the odd behavior of the lay people. They almost seemed excited to see them, but now...they're diving in front of the people with swords, trying to defend the wraiths with their bodies. The cry of Luca makes her move though, and she moves quickly, ducking through the crowd and trying to get close to her and Myr.

"Guys! Are you two ok? I heard a scream, what's wrong?"

His distress is false for only as long as it takes the Abbey's residents to get between the wraiths and the huddle of Inquisition members. It grows as they pull from the walls, the already unstable walls.

"The roof!" he shouts, to the one who came close, at least, hopeing they will grasp the matter and get out. He can mind those around him, but not all of the Abbey. Closing a rift does not take so much from him, does not leave him exhausted, but the doing, it is all-encompassing, and he must trust Solas to watch his back, as it were. Jang comes into the room and proceeds to wade into the middle of it, moving past the protective huddle of Inquisition members, and Thranduil curses, bitter, before yelling in her direction.

"Your shard, you fool!"

It had seemed... well, it hadn't seemed in hand at all before Teren had turned to walk away, but several feet from the door her conscience-- such that it is-- catches up with her. Her companions are shouting, and now some of the civilians seem to be as well. Walking away from that isn't an unknown solution to her, but it wouldn't bode well with the Inquisition.
That doesn't need to become her reputation.

With a heavy, long-suffering sigh, Teren turns to go back into the chamber, heaving both doors open as wide as they'll go and steeling herself for the monstrosities within. It's important that the doors be open, because the people have to leave.
"Come on," she shouts from the doorway to the nearest group of people, "save yourselves, for the love of Maferath."

The yell about the roof has him looking up and cursing. It's going to come down, there will be people caught in it, but at least he can slow things down. Anders casts at a pair of unoccupied spots in the chapel, raising pillars of pure earth up to support the ceiling in part. It's not pretty. It's not graceful. But it could buy them some time and that's what he's angling for.

A moment later it strikes him that he's basically wrecking a Chantry all over again, as he's destroying some of the pews with the pillars, but at least this time no one can actually blame him. Maybe.

"Get out, quickly!" he shouts, adding his voice to the mix and putting barriers up around the people furthest from the doors, backing toward the exit.

The barriers flare up around the pilgrims near the stage, around Myr, and around Luca and she pales as the magic goes up around her. The wraiths that had first arrived, had stepped up and slaughtered the pride demons, halt their stride and reel, twisting and turning their blank eyes onto the shapes of those who now had barriers.

The pilgrims turn wide eyes on them as the wraiths approach, their expressions strange and hovering at something near concern. When the first wraith draws back its blade and brings it down against the barrier--the magic crackles with the force of it. The second blow glances off and clips a bystander, digging deeply into her calf and sending her to the ground. She screams, other scream, and the third blow shatters the barrier--this wraith's blade does not glance.

It strikes true and cuts into the pilgrim's shoulder, stopping at the base of his ribs. Blood pours forth onto the stone floor and the body falls away as the wraith yanks its blade free--it twists to face the next barriered bystander and the man backs up, clamoring into the stands. The second wraith turns its attention to Myr and Luca, and Luca scrambles back in a panic.

"Oh shit... Myr! Grab her, Know when to fold em, follow me!" Jang stands and runs towards the wall, a hand of cards appearing in her grip as she runs towards the wall. She filings the cards forwards and with a loud crack they slam into the brickwork, punching a hole big enough to get through. "Come on! We gotta get out of here, they're seeking on us!"

Technically on the two of you, but now ain't the time to split hairs Jang thinks to herself as she climbs through, another hand of cards appearing in her fist as she waits for Myr and Luca. "Move!

The crowd's too thick, too confused--Myr'd need to knock pilgrims aside like ninepins to get through to the rest of the Inquisition and checks his run forthwith, furious and sick. "See to her," he calls to Jang--nearly snaps--as the rifter asks after them. "Something's burned her--"

He has lost the knack of seeing a whole scene like this for what it is; his attention skips to isolated incidents, flashes of color, a frozen gesture. It's distracting Revered Mother, one of the pilgrims near the stage calls the nearest of the wraiths, begging it--her--for clemency on behalf of the Inquisition. It is sad, Estmond had said--

And now he knows with brittle clarity whose faces those are. He ducks his head to look beneath the nearest hood just as Anders' barrier flickers up around him--and all the blood drains from his face. "You absolute fucking idiot," he breathes; doesn't even know which of the other mages he's damning with the words and quickly forgets it anyway as the wraiths turn on the nearest pilgrims.

He isn't fast enough to save them. No one could be, but that's slim consolation when a man collapses into so much meat mere yards from him. Jang is yelling for him--she's done something to the wall from the sound of it--but he doesn't hear, doesn't process, not with the wraiths advancing on them and more innocents in the line of that advance. He snaps out a hand toward the first wraith, the murderer, drawing repulsion out of the Fade in glyph-shape as fast as he ever has and dropping it between the wraith and her target.

Then to the second-- He steps firmly in her path, lifts his chin and locks eyes with--something--beneath the hood, jaw set against clamoring fear. (If he turns his back to run, he does not know when he will stop, and he cannot do that.) "Are you Faraday," he says to the creature, setting his stance and lifting his staff to receive its charge--but not attacking himself, not yet, "or Alvar, or Odetta?"

He isn't so daft to believe naming them might have power. But they had hesitated. Briefly.

Edited 2018-09-26 07:04 (UTC)

"Jang!" Thranduil shouts again. "Get back here and closed the damned Rift!"

The room was compromised enough between the scaffolding and the existent hole, and now there is a second, and Thranduil glances behind him, then to Myrobalan, and to Anders again.

"Drop the barrier, they do not understand."

All the while, his shard crackles and burns.

The wraith before Myr halts, the dead expression on its face shifting like smoke curling in the air. It shifts to anger then sorrow ina flickering instant. It holds a moment as that expression lingers, then it begins to ebb.

This is mother Faraday, or it was, some time ago.

The chaos is putting holes in the room and the rift is not being quiet. It churns and cracks. The wraith moving to Luca is not slow and Luca scrambles for Jang's exit. The wraiths before Thranduil are held back only by the crowd around him and, already, their dark hoods shift and they lurch forward.

"Everyone, the roof is unstable!" A loud voice calls, the pilgrims heed Merkle as he shouts to them all, but in their distraction the wraiths are free to attack. A sword slices the air above Thranduil and another comes down toward Obi-wan.

He equally doesn't understand all of what he's seeing, but Thranduil is his department head. With a nod, Anders drops the barriers and instead sends his magic upward, strengthening the two earthen pillars in order to hold the roof up a little longer. The creatures haven't attacked that yet, at least.

"Go," he echoes to the nearest pilgrims as they finally start to run, finally stop holding so hard to faith.

Anders himself takes a couple of steps back toward the door as well, but he's not out of it yet. He needs to keep the roof up as long as he can.

The Abbey on the White Cliff

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screw it were doin pb icons since i've got 'em aND EYES

EYES

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