faderift | PRIDE BEFORE A FALL

Entry tags:

PRIDE BEFORE A FALL | Closed.

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?

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Welcome to the Fade.

You shouldn’t be here. Gods have walked here, and those who'd dare become them. The place itself is damning to know — any mage can attest.

But this is no dream. Air ripples like water, crags of bare earth float suspended above you. Water falls upwards, shimmers into void. The vestiges of forgotten times and places glimmer between shadow, intimate as they are barren. Listen closely and you'll hear the call of a brother, the weeping of a mother, the soft breath of an animal in the night. The Fade remembers.

Disorientation rules: Hard to know up from down, or your own skin from another’s. The others — oh. Right, them. Did you land with or on them?

You’re on the roof of a complex of ruins (the black city lurking distant). Those with you flicker, and looking too long at each other will find the group’s appearances altered, reflecting your perceptions of each other. The changes aren’t physical, and they aren't uniform,

But keeping your thoughts to yourself just got a great deal more difficult. There seems to be only one way to make it stop: Talking about it. To each other.

Ugh.

Edited 2018-10-08 11:35 (UTC)

The path unfolds into a palace, many-roomed. Spirits gust shapeless through it in the imitation of courtiers. Thousands of years’ misremembering have toppled the shelves and mingled fashion; elven ruins and Chantric carvings mixing with flashes of your own home. Perhaps the pattern of the curtains, or the echo of an old friend. Rock and raw magic shift between glances.

NURSERY

The bedrooms and balconies twist with blackened stone. In one, toys scatter about furniture too small for a grown man. Soft giggles, snorts — is that a lullaby? Something lisps a lesson between brand new teeth. There are more noises from the centerpiece: a crib, sumptuous before it fell to Fade. The shadow of a nurse ghosts to and fro, her pattern undisturbed by intrusion.

What lies within? That’s up to you, isn’t it — when did you last think of children?

THE FIELD

The walls of the palace are broken only by a vast gate. Just beyond it, armies clash. There are eyes upon you here, and an endless, pitched battle: It has raged a thousand years, may continue a thousand more.

Are they only spirits? Or Darkspawn, Celene’s soldiers, your own family? The closer you draw, the more solid they become, determined by their nature only to fight. Drive them back, or flee. But don’t let yourself be caught within.

Edited 2018-10-08 11:35 (UTC)

"You want to go home."

She's radiant, with the perfect symmetry of the inhuman, a voice that rings like spring and echoes like winter. (Who said beauty should be comforting?) Twin fires blaze in place of eyes, and her robes almost beckon along the path. Alive, beyond even herself. She takes steps that never touch the floor. "But which way is that?"

A pantomime glance over her shoulder, a sly smile (black teeth). She grips the nearest hand.

Sympathetically: "Which home is it?"

Edited 2018-10-08 11:36 (UTC)

Her hand's come loose from Lakshmi's shoulder (the sprint of metal over earth, a shout: What the fuck are you doing —) somewhere between here and there, there and here. And here is,

"Maker."

Not quite. It's a rare thing to see Wren freeze; she's frozen now, head thrown back in open, stupid awe. Fumbling up, she grips for her sword against all rational impulse. Still feels better for it in hand. What's she going to do, fight the Fade?

Because this is the Fade. This can't be, but it is. The look she turns on the person nearest manages to imply, beneath horror, that this is all their fault.

Edited 2018-10-08 11:57 (UTC)

She had not wanted this green impossible sky. Green and sickly.

Nor had she wanted to endanger anyone else. But the more time stretched on and on, the more she heard nothing of how to leave, the more it became clear that there was no way if she did not try it herself. Lucky, that her position afforded her exposure to the rifts. Lucky it let her wait until the opportunity presented itself.

Because she feels no hope, no wonder, not even fear. What grows is far worse than the strangeness of a place she doesn't understand to fear or love. What blooms is far worse. Deep below her bones. Trapped between ribs. A mind-numbing grief. Heavy and blood-thick. Panting, deep, from the effort of running so hard and fast. Looking lost as she pivots on her heel. Up, and around, spinning for anything, anything at all - it did not have to be her homeland, it did not have to be Jhansi or Delhi or Gwalior it just had to be -

"No! No, no, no!" She seldom sounds panicked, sounds fearful. But it creeps up with each word, slowly slipping out of her mind with it. "What is this? What is this place? Where is my home?"

"Not here."

Kitty is angry, to be sure. She's also curious. Curious, wonder-struck, with the curiosity of all of this cutting through her fury so that she can't hold onto it too long. So her voice isn't as strident as usual, isn't as fierce; instead, there's a little softness to it.

"Or maybe this is it. Regardless - " She looks back to Lakshmi, tries to hold onto her anger. "This was idiotic."

This place is dreadful; that much is certain. It's dreadful and terrifying and she doesn't want to be here. And yet there's a sort of fascination to it, as well. Things here are so altogether impossible, beyond all rules that govern the natural world. She takes a copper from her pocket, sets it in an odd eddy of air; it tumbles end over end over end, spinning in place, never descending to the ground nor rising to the sky. She observes it for a while, then grabs it, frugally pocketing it once more.

"Right," she says. Shakes her head to get her hair out of her face, straightens her tunic. "So is there a way out?" And also, even though it's not altogether apropos of the current situation - "And are there things we can collect here, to help us back in the real world?"

"The Fade," supplies Merrill, from where she's picking over the ruined roof they've ended up on. Her feet are bare, which does few favors when trying to avoid any jagged stone edges.

This is- well. It isn't the first time it's happened to anyone, but that doesn't mean it's a good thing.

"Take deep breaths," she advises, glancing around. "Strong emotions may draw spirits to us and the more negative the emotion, the more likely it's going to be a demon."

"It should have taken me home."

Because if it brought her here, dragged her from where she should have been - how dare it not return her? Like she could hold the sky accountable if she but gripped it with both hands. If she just threw herself at it hard enough.

"Why hasn't it given me back." It's a mad thing to say, and she feels the madness of it even as she says it. But that is hasn't worked is beyond her, at present. Because no amount of soothing would stop this now it started. Like a slit throat, bubbling up and slick.

"I never thought I would find myself here physically."

Solas' reaction is not quite as intense as he thinks the rest of the party's might end up being. What crosses his face is not necessarily that of uncertainty but of a level kind of delight as he steps around, drinking it in. He barely notices what is happening to the others, the Black City in the distance, the flickering images of one another not enough to distract him from the awe and wonder of being here, present, physically.

The nostalgia tugs at him and, for a moment, Solas simply breathes.

"Perhaps not the area I would have chosen, but to be here, physically..." A shake of his head. "I wonder what commands this place. I have seen nothing like it before now."

Is he talking to someone? No, it seems as though he is, more than anything, talking to himself.

"What is this place?" Merrill asks, peering over the edge of the roof as well as she can without getting close enough to topple off. "Not the Fade, I know that part, just- is this a reflection of somewhere?"

It certainly didn't look like a bridge, or even the ruins of a bridge. Then again, perhaps that was because she was on top of it.

Galadriel was going to be rather cross with them.

This is no Dalish nursery; it's indoors, for starters. And yet Merrill thinks she can see toys that a small elf would play with; the twisted antlers of a halla, a small bow and arrow. The most likely explanation is that the Fade is twisting around to better suit her, to match with what she thinks, but perhaps Merrill is just seeing things.

It's the Fade, after all. They're all seeing things - it's just that those things see them, too.

She's frozen near the entrance, not really wanting to go inside but also not comfortable enough not to. They need to keep moving, she knows that.

She also knows that she doesn't really want to look in that crib, and that something seems to want her to.

"I am not sure," he admits, frown settling on his face. It seems as though he is finally recognising the problem of being in the Fade itself rather than being wrapped up and caught up in the joy and wonder of stepping here himself. It has been long enough that he is not sure how to accept it, how he should feel being placed so close to something he knows but cannot know at the same time.

His frown deepens.

"Something that I had not thought to see. I wish that I knew exactly where..."

"If everything would stop changing, that would help," Merrill huffs, but she also knows that it's not likely to happen. This is the Fade, after all. That's what it does. So she sighs, stepping away from the roof to stand near Solas, crossing her arms.

"Galadriel's going to scold us," she points out, even as she shifts up onto her toes to try and look around. "I don't suppose you see anything familiar...?"

Of course, the landscape is changing; everything could be familiar and not, all at once. It was terribly frustrating.

"It is discomforting to some, I am sure," Solas nods in agreement. This is familiar territory for him, at least for now, and he steps forward, looking around and drinking in all that the Fade has to offer. He wants to embrace it all, to study it, to know it, but he's more than aware that this is likely not the time.

No matter how distracted he might be by it.

"Galadriel will understand, I think, that we had no control of this." Finally, he looks at Merrill properly. "But I see nothing I know. I think we might have to explore to find an exit."

"Yes, but I think she'll also be worried when we don't come back in a timely fashion." They had worried about her at the Abbey, after all - and this time, it's both of them. Still, they can't do anything about it now other than, as Solas said, explore.

She nods, frowning slightly, and settles back down onto her heels. "I think you're right. I hope there's a door off this roof somewhere." Fade or not, broken bones are very real, and Merrill is not jumping off the roof.

At the very least, she won't be the first one to jump off.

"No! It shouldn't have! And if you had been less of an irresponsible, selfish cunt you might have spoken to someone about this first and known people have gone into the Fade through a rift before and it doesn't go anywhere but here!"

Furious doesn't begin to describe how she's feeling.

"I will hold you personally responsible for everything that happens because you couldn't be bothered, as usual," a little harsh, Gwen, "to learn what's around you instead of expecting what you think it should be to matter."

Kitty shoots Gwen a bit of a look at "irresponsible, selfish cunt." She doesn't say anything, but the look is clear enough: a little bit yeah I get it and a little bit please don't.

Helena is on all falls, crouched like a feral creature ready to strike. Like might be a bit optimistic, when she is generally accepted as a feral creature.

"Queen Lady," she rasps, her voice rougher and lower than usual, as she moves forwards. Past the shouting not-French, and the little cat. "If I do not get back to my sisters, you will never know light again. Even if you are home, it will not be for your seeing."

Mute as the grave and pale as a sheet lyed in sun, Marcoulf has stood at the edge of whatever this is as transfixed. But somewhere between Gwen and Helena outbursts, he jerks as if struck. By the time her threat is well developed, his hand claps down on Lakshmi's arm like he means to drag her about by it.

"We should get off this roof. If something comes - there's nowhere to go." There might not be anywhere to go somewhere else either. But all this open space and tilting sky, water crawling upwards and dust drifting at uneven angles-- it has him all halting, every small hair standing on end.

Helena's lip is caught in a snarl, and looks up to the Coupe with a quick, feral motion. Her bow is on her back, and there is a knife in each hand.

"What is this?"

"Let the damn demons attack." It snaps her out of her shock, to the threats to her life, to Gwen's snarling words. At least for a second until Marcoulf's reaching makes her stumble. Feeling pulled and to it she wrenches herself out of it. Jerking bodily from her shoulder out, rolling herself forcefully, she would not be held onto, be kept back.

"Damn you, damn all of you." The words bark out of her throat, out of her own mind with little between them. Deeper, rough losing any edge of what she keeps up otherwise, the accent slips closer to something of her home, clipping at the words. "How often you lecture me on how I ought to appear, else how I will seem to you. But yet I should take you at your word! I listen and I listen well. Oh yes, I hear how gladly I hear how I should accept the words of people who tell me I ought to be glad to live on my knees. How I might upset them for something that I never wanted. You are all certainly to be trusted, I can certainly confide a single thing in any of you."

the nursery — cw: ref to childhood abuse/brainwashing/self harm.
Helena trails her fingers along the walls as she walks. Where her fingers trail, there are brief glimpses of childish drawings scrawled onto the walls. Women's bodies in blocky stick figures and triangular dresses, the heads a rough circle. Very rarely, the head is the base of a red question mark, before the drawing disappears again.

This is like convent, and very different, in same moment. She sees the dark shapes of a nun's habit, and Helena seems to go rigid, motions stiff and jerky as she moves through the room like a feral cat, hyperaware and waiting to strike.

The toys on the floor are naked, plastic dolls. Anatomically strangely proportioned, faces in eternal smiles and hair and eyes in different colours. They have been burned, slashed with blades, spat on, their hair styled in rough, messy styles. The room smells acrid and harsh. Helena's breathing quickens, as she moves around the edges of the room, and the scrape of metal against stone pulls her attention down, and she moves her foot back, to reveal a razor blade beneath her boot.

This carries much from her childhood, but she knows it is wrong.

the field.
Some of the fighters, they are wearing cowboy hats and boots. An exaggeration of what she saw on the Johanssen men and their followers, certainly, a little more wild west than fit the Proletheans. Cowboys and scientists on the battle field, and Helena is drawn to it. Wildness simmers in her, the need to fight, to punish them for taking from her, for hurting her family, and she draws her bow to loose an arrow into the throat of one of the fighters.

A moment ago, Gwenaëlle had been sensible. Inasmuch as she was ever going to be sensible, inasmuch as that is applicable to anything that involves screaming cunt at another person. I listen well—

She hauls off, just like Coupe taught her, and punches Lakshmi in the mouth.

“By all means,” she snarls back, “feel free to keep your ignorant mouth shut while the rest of us deal with your fuck up. Go ahead and hold your breath until I give a damn who you confide in, it'll solve one of our problems.”

The action isn't even thought through after the blow connects. You are a warrior, Manu, you are to never accept a blow again. Nor was it that Gwenaelle had the strength to strike Lakshmi true enough to hurt her, not really. Cause a spit up of blood in her mouth which she chokes out.

The blow isn't to Gwen's face. Mercy for that. But it goes hard into her stomach, flat knuckles are worn hard for these things. The heavy leather made to add to the blow, hard, pointed, all of her considerable strength straight in, "you should have a thought who you strike, girl." Hissed low, unforgiving.

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Page 1 of 8

PRIDE BEFORE A FALL | Closed.

THE FADE | solo or group threads

THE PALACE | solo or group threads

THE SPIRIT | group thread

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OTA GROUP THREAD - yelling at Lakshmi

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ota!!

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solas | ota

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merrill | nursery, ota

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helena / ota (cw ref to childhood abuse/brainwashing/self harm.)

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