Entry tags:

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Once the chant is done, Alvar beckons Myr to her side and takes him by the hands. It is a fond touch but weakened by her decline. Her fingers only just light on his and there is a brittleness to them, as though they shall break under the strain of that brief contact. At Myr's back, Luca leaves a hand on his shoulder and steps in close. He cannot see Alvar's face, nor predict what she shall do, and Luca takes it upon herself to warn him.

Her voice is low in his ear as she whispers--Be not afraid.

When Alvar uses her gifts, the feeling is indescribable and immediate. It rises through the ground, invisible and cool, like the tide. It pulls at his ankles, at the air in the room, at the very edge of that sedate rift that hangs above them. It is not healing that comes over Myr, the power that ensnares him is something else, restoration more than anything, and it draws through him until it finds what he was, and how it might return him to that state. It is not a gentle process, nor delicate--it is neither kind nor unkind as it works, but the numbing cold that chases at its heels is prodigious and, quite likely, very welcome. His eyes are returned from his flesh, pressed out in an agony of new growth and old form, and once they have settled the magic recedes.

Edited 2018-09-22 06:32 (UTC)

Scattered throughout the Abbey there are a great number of the faithful, come to praise Andraste and the Maker. Their numbers are far greater than anything this Abbey was meant to maintain, but still they come. There are many who have traveled quite a distance to be here, and many who live in the village by the shore; they are varied in shape and size but each and every one of them is elated to be here.

The Sisters and the pilgrims go about their business, surrounded by the damp and grey of the island, engulfed in the cold of the Abbey, and not one of them seems to care one whit about any of it. The dreary garden and dim archways might as well be lit with streaming golden light for all that the people of the Abbey beam and smile.

There is no doubt in Myr's heart that Alvar has the power she claims. Despite everything the Southern Chantry teaches, his is a fervent hope in the Maker and His followers. There are miracles and one had only to listen to the people of the abbey to know it. He doesn't doubt in the least that he can be healed, Maker willing,

But he doesn't know what to expect when the Revered Mother calls him forth; had not asked, for fear the abbey in all its horror and wonder and awful mercy would shatter like a dropped glass if put to the question. It seems of the same tissue with his dreams--not only a place of healing but one where the Chant is lived and neither mage nor elf nor rifter is turned away--and dreams, even for a mage, never last.

Yet it has lasted to this moment, to Alvar calling his name, and he goes to her without hesitation. He clasps her hands in his like a man handling a holy relic (for isn't she?) and notes how very fragile they seem, and gives due to space to the thought: I am her doom.

Then Luca leans in to whisper to him and there's no more time to think about that.

"Be not afraid."

What is there to be afraid of? he doesn't ask--for he knows very well where divinity touches the world, the world gives way.

He's been the subject of healing magic before, his own and others; this is not that. Creation is like light or a song, he'd told Nari once before; it steals warm through the body, quieting pain and setting injury to rights. Spirits are stranger in their hunger for the waking world, every touch a discomfiting caress but soothing all the same. This isn't that; it's cold and passionless as the Void and then there is the pain.

(of course there would be it hurt to take them out a hurt that went deeper than the sockets and down into his soul his self of course it would hurt to undo all that)

Stubborn pride bridles his tongue; he will not cry out, only draws breath sharply and holds it. Anxious worry keeps him from clutching at Alvar white-knuckled like a lifeline even as her fingers slip from his-- Even as-- Shivering, drenched in cold sweat, he drops to a knee as she crumples, reaching--failing--to catch her. A convulsive shudder wracks him; he reaches, as abruptly, to tear off a blindfold suddenly wrapped too tight--

And for the first time in four years, Myrobalan Shivana opens his eyes.

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.

Sister Brigette is a young woman with a round, rosy face and bright, happy eyes. She is saddened by the passing of Reverend Mother Alvar, and troubled by the state of the Abbey in the wake of her death, but the light of conviction still shines in her face. She doesn't pale as the wraiths wander the hall before her, but she is made worried by the sight of them.

She is not an intimidating person, nor exceptionally stern, but she can often be found in contemplation at the end of the hall, barring re-entry into the Auditorium.

Edited 2018-09-22 06:53 (UTC)

Brother Morely has not yet abandoned his task, lighting the candles and reaffirming the prayers of the faithful, but the challenge of it has increased tenfold with Reverend Mother Alvar's passing. Even the light in his lantern flickers dangerously as he moves and the wraiths trail his steps solemnly as he attempts to conjure light and warmth in the alcoves of the main hall. The wraiths make no effort to extinguish the flames, not directly, but their presence mutes all things and snuffs out the warmth as it sparks to life.

Edited 2018-09-22 06:55 (UTC)

The carpenters are harder to track in the wake of the Reverend Mother's passing. They have given up residence in the hall and taken shelter in the cloister, where few wraiths travel, and where the wind keeps the worst of the cold from congregating. The rift is too dangerous to work alongside, at least for now, so they bide their time and stoke the campfire beneath their constructed awnings.

Reverend Mother Luca is not hard to find, not now, but she is more drawn and worried than she has been in previous days. She is pale and restless, her long braid is frayed and unkempt. She regards the wraiths with suspicion and worry and lingers in the offices and Alvar's darkened apartments.

She already seems older than she is and she fidgets with the band on her finger as she paces the halls and the tight spaces of her favored rooms.

She is a young woman, sixteen with a round bright face and expressive brown eyes. She darts back and forth through the halls, towing blankets and sheets, her smile quick even as she pulls her shawl about her. She is filled with faith and unbothered by the presence of the wraiths.

She even greets them as she passes and pays them little mind as she moves far too closely.

Her brother, Gwydion, trails after her and marvels openly at the creatures until she scolds him for staring. He catches her up quickly after that.

The Abbey is a terribly small place, neither sprawling nor tall, and seems claustrophobic under the weight of the storm that rages against the white cliffs. It is packed with Pilgrims, a hundred strong, and a handful of staff and everywhere, in passing and at a distance, one can see the form of some great and terrible creature moving through the rooms, silent and frigid like a wraith. Those who live in the Abbey and those who have been here some time pay them no heed, but they are dangerous and unpredictable.

The trees beyond the abbey loom and sway dangerously in the wind and rain, but they provide shelter from the storm. Not the creatures, though--there is no shelter to be had from them.

The Main Hall is a long building, the sort in every Chantry across the whole of Thedas, and it opens into a wide room filled with pilgrims and unlit candles. The walls are lined with pews and columns and through that colonnade, in the shadows and the streaming light of the windows, dark figures travel the length of it. They linger outside the stone, beyond the walls or near them, and with them follows biting cold. The grey light fades as they pass, streaming to nothing as though shining through heavy waves, and they know no rest. Not truly.

There are no demons here, this place is safe, but the creatures that protect it are unknowable and twisted.

The Sisters and Brothers of the Abbey can be found in this hall, wandering two and fro, and every place of note is accessible from here. Only the Auditorium is shut to visitors, for the rift beyond the doors is too unstable to remain near to and the roof not yet repaired.

The cloister has become the hub of activity in the Abbey, following the death of Reverend Mother Alvar. The wide covered plaza is full of life and conversation, all gathered around a fire pit and the wooden statue of Andraste. The storm rages above and the smell of brine and flowers permeates the air. It is chilly here, but it is not the deep and freezing cold of the main hall.

The sawhorses have been moved aside, replaced with beds and chairs. The tools have been stowed for now, however briefly, and the mood of those who linger in the dryness is upbeat and positive, despite the dismal setting.

The Inquisition is welcome with open arms to the Abbey, but not all welcomes are quite equal. Those who bare a rift mark are given a bit more kindness than those who do not. Rooms are cleared and opened to the marked, and while the beds are three to a space, they are still beds and they are made up with both sheets and blankets and adorned with a down pillow each. Those without marks are given cots, just as the rest of the pilgrims are, and their blankets are no less thick but their pillows are markedly thinner, if they are present at all.

The dormitories are east of the main hall, above the kitchens and the storehouses, overlooking trees and the cloister. The windows here have no glass but their shutters pull tight and the windows wear heavy, but short curtains that reach only past the window itself. There are a few niceties, mirrors and bookshelves that have not been moved in a century, but everything else has been moved or shuffled away to make room for those who come to the Abbey every day.

The Inquisition members are lucky, they are not sleeping in the Main Hall or the hallways that line the Abbey, but they are cramped and it is hardly a comfortable or quiet space. The kitchens below are loud, but there is fortunately no smoke rising from them to choke the windows or spoil the air.

The Infirmary Hall is dark and bitter cold.

The tang of death has not abated in the wake of Alvar's rein, if anything it has intensified. The wounds have reopened, both metaphorically and literally--there is struggle here, now, and the urgency of it bleeds into the walls. Estmond layers the bodies in the beds with blankets, he rushes in a panicked frenzy to keep them comfortable, but still they writhe. They have awoken, the sleeping patients in the hall, and the force that has kept them in stasis has weakened tremendously.

They are failing, they are dying now, and with some staggering speed. Their blood does not clot so easily, their pulses are not slowed and calmed, and they suffer the effects of this world around them as any man might. It is a terrible place to behold, now, because it is loud, it is painful, and nothing in this room is sedate any longer.

The garden is frozen and rotting in equal measure.

The perfect plants have receded and the laws of nature have fallen over them once more. Summer blooms are frozen and withered, wilted with the cold. Fruits are rotting in the damp and bugs have moved in to consume what they can. Half of the yard is a stinking bog within hours of Alvar's passing--the other half is white and burnt by cold, already freezing with the chill of the wraiths that wander through.

Nothing here is edible. Everything is lost.

The light in the office has gone out.

It is dark and it is cold here, but there are few wraiths who wander these halls. The candle on the desk is dark and will not be lit, not for anyone or anything.

The books remain, silent and cold, unaffected by all but the damp. The trinkets and notes gather dust, the clothing in the room over moulders and the flesh in the closet therein begins to rot. This place is a proper tomb now and walking into it, the comfort the candlelight gave off is missing.

Blood seems to rise from the floorboards or, at the least, it is not so clean as it appeared when last the room was lit.

In the south transept, the door to the exterior of the building has been blocked off and boarded up. The light that filters in from the windows that line the building is muted here, as if blocked out by a great looming shadow. The trees are close to the building here, and the shadows they cast are long.

To the side of the doorway there are a set of stairs leading downward into darkness. They are easily missed, hidden in the dark corner of the building as they are. They seem unimportant but, if one listens, one can hear the dripping and sloshing of water from below. If one listens harder, they can hear a quiet whispering, but it is an evasive thing and lost as easily as it is found.

The kitchens are frigid now, empty and humid in the cold and the rain, and every inch of them is stinking. The mass of meat and vegetables that rest here have begun to turn. They are no longer preserved and they change as the weather does. They are kept stable by the cold, but their bruises are deep and their skins are thin and easily worn through by the biting chill of the wraiths.

The fish begins to stink within hours, the milk grows a skin but does not yet curdle. The bodies in the basement are dried but for the oil and the rancid nature of that permeates the air of the kitchen.

The wraiths enter here only on occasion, traveling some unseen path that draws them through, so it is warmer than most places.

(OOC: Feel free to start threads as you like. This is a catch all for your adventures.)

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.

He knocks. He is not so ill-mannered to avoid that courtesy, and he has always found it best to make offerings open-handedly first. The weevils have yet to wind their way into all the grain just yet, and he has a bowl in his hands, oats left to soak, mixed with what few blackberries had not rotted entirely. They have dyed the porridge purple-black, and he holds the bowl unselfconsciously in all he is before her door.

"Revered Mother," he says, "May I beg some of your time?"

Edited 2018-09-22 20:07 (UTC)

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)

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 16

Simple Gifts [Closed] - Part 2

The Abbey on the White Cliff

Ceremony

The Denizens of the Abbey

no subject

no subject

Sister Brigette - Found In The Main Hall

Brother Morely - Found In The Main Hall and Various Other Buildings

The Carpenters, Merkle and Herkle of Alamar

Reverend Mother Luca

Sister Elonwy - Found Everywhere

The Abbey on the White Cliff

The Main Hall

The Cloister

Dormitories

The Infirmary Hall - CW: GORE

The Garden

The Offices and Library

The Southern Transept

The Kitchens

Team 1 - Merrill, Solas, Myr, Galadriel

Team 2 - Kitty, Lakshmi, Teren, Thranduil

Team 3 - Marcoulf, Jang, Obi-Wan, Anders

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject