PRIDE BEFORE A FALL | Closed.

[limier]

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?

 

Comments

marcoulf | nursery, ota

[esquive]

He's followed close at heel, down from the twisted and crumbling ruin and through the shifting elsewhere and now this place: the palace with its bizarre blended architecture, the details of it visceral and unspecific as a drawing with fingerprints left on it. When they find it, the ragged field with it's grotesque details of limping horses and mud heavy plate armor and the ragged shrieking of some child given a sword and dying now will be as a well-trod nightmare, Fade touched but tangled with some well known fear and neutered for it.

But the palace, with it's long not-anonymous corridors and ballrooms and balustrades, it's quiet side passages and waiting doorways, finds some grip on him. He finds himself lingering at cross paths, peering expectantly into the shadows or distracted by lit candles in rooms as they pass them. Eventually, they pass an open door and his periphery vision finds what he's been thinking of in the room beyond.

Marcoulf backtracks. The room is quiet and still, the crib empty. Whatever attendants the child there might have had have left with it. Light pours too through the too broad windows overlooking some painted estate field, lovely and beautiful behind glass as dust collects on the window ledge and drifts in the air of the forgotten room.

--But there is such a smell to the room - sweet summer grass and pipe smoke - that despite the quiet now, he can't shake the sensation of some recent habitation. He lingers in the doorway.

"Did you see a figure here?"

Which is ludicrous. They've seen them everywhere.