faderift | PRIDE BEFORE A FALL

WHO: Lakshmi + Coupe, Kitty, Gwenaelle, Helena, Iorveth, Marcoulf, Merrill, Solas.
WHAT: Fade cannonball
WHEN: You can't make me date you
WHERE: The Free Marches
NOTES: OOC Post, Discussion plurk.

This is routine.

A rift, high above the ruins of the Hammer’s Edge Bridge. It cuts into the sky, green and pulsing as a wound to spit out spirits like misery. This is routine — but the position is precarious, so near to a cliff ledge. Watch your footing, a fall promises only sharp rocks and water below.

The task is straightforward: Close the tear, or provide a diversion for the Rifters doing so. Keep yourself alive, and keep your hand to the task, no matter how it aches. When respite comes, it’s a matter of seconds: The Rift stabilizes, and,

And Lakshmi breaks from the group. Moving fast (too considered for the pace, every demon dodged, never a misstep on the odd root or rock) as she sprints for the edge. Maybe you tried to grab her, stop her, stop someone else from grabbing her.

She launches herself legs out, flatly determined in her aim —

Maybe it’s only that like it or not, she’s going through that rift. Maybe it’s that there’s no good reason not to join her. Maybe it’s that everyone else is jumping too.

Routine, right?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There's a hand at her elbow. Quietly:

"Warden," Is that right? No. No, she just... hangs about them. It'll do; can't put other name or title to the girl just now (it'll come back, they're all distracted, it always comes back). "There is nothing worth seeing."

Something catches beneath the gravel of her throat — it doesn't sound as though she means it.

If it weren't for the hand, Merrill wouldn't think she was the one being spoken to - or perhaps she would not have heard. One of the curtains in the room flickers and Merrill sees it as the crimson sail of an aravel in the breeze, eyes immediately darting to it- but no. No, she's being touched, spoken to, and Merrill drags her gaze away and to the Templar instead.

"Merrill," she corrects, ignoring the pang in her chest. Anders was a Warden. Bethany and Carver were Wardens. Hercules had been a Warden. She missed them, all of them - and was certain Anders would give her an earful when she got back - and the unintentional reminder stung a bit. "I- does it feel like it wants us to look?"

"It is a spirit," Has — no idea, really, where the line between waking and dream animates itself. "It wants but one thing of you."

She doesn't know that. But if she knows anything about the cradle (a heavy burnt trunk), it’s that nothing kind lies within. If she knows anything about the cradle, it’s what she’ll see inside.

A fat little fist lifts itself over the edge. Tiny fingers thrash at the air; a high wail sounds. It needs Merrill, needs her attention. There are so few who know how to tend a Dalish child,

Wren's grip tightens.

Merrill knows spirits are dangerous. It's never stopped her. This, though- this feels like a trap. An effective trap- but the Templar just behind her is just as effective as her grip tightens. She swallows, eyes darting between the crib (furs and leathers and wood) and Coupe.

"Why is-" but she breaks off, swallowing. No, she knows why. Who had jumped into the Rift? Who had asked, over the crystals, about marriage and families?

Something here is feeding off Lakshmi, and the grip Merrill has on her staff tightens in time with the realization.

"Is there a way around?"

"Yes." She lies, and hopes it might become true. A step back, leading, "The Fade is shaped by us, yes?"

In dreams, it is. In raw form? It must be, must be still, to some degree — only but look about them.

"We may make one, may find it." Perhaps. Maybe. But if ever there was a time for certainty, it's in trying to will a fucking path into being. Maker knows what a time any Maker must have had of it. "You do not need this."

Coupe steps. Merrill follows, glad to not be the one to lead in this case. The room is eerie, the cries of the 'baby' ringing in her ears. Her stomach twists and Merrill ends up grabbing for Coupe's sleeve, or arm, or something - something physical to hold onto when all the world around them is strange.

"There's always a way," she says after a moment, taking a deep breath. "Sometimes you just have to find it. But- down, I think? Stairs, somewhere."

Exist, she wills, with white-knuckled tension.

PRIDE BEFORE A FALL | Closed.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject