OPEN: Kirkwail

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Ghosts
WHEN: Wintermarch 20
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC post. More content warnings than you can shake a stick at, probably, including allusions to slavery and violence in the body of the log post. Please use appropriate warnings in the subject lines for your own threads.

The storm sweeps in like an assassin: unexpected, in the dark, and throwing sharp pricks of sleet at exposed eyes and noses with expert aim and enough force to almost draw blood if the angle is right. Half an hour after the clouds crest the cliffs is all it takes for the city to retract indoors and huddle around fireplaces, settling in for a long night that will, unforeseen, turn into a long two days.

The Gallows, too, is pelted with ice; the walls of the cliffs and the fortress protect much of it from the worst of the wind, but when it can find a path over or through the walls, it slams through windows or doors to scatter papers and snuff out fires.

In the dark, in the rain, hurrying between towers or already accustomed to jumping firelight casting strange shadows and the wind howling like a wounded animal, people might be forgiven if they don't notice at first. But there's a hanging in the courtyard, a dozen translucent wisps of bodies dangling from the idea of nooses, and there's a girl's voice in the basement of the templar tower screaming for her mother, and there's a ghostly man in the library holding the blade of a knife to his palm and whispering this is it, this is it—or maybe there isn't, actually, when you lift your head to pay closer attention.

But as the night wears on they multiply, and they brighten, and even if you haven't noticed them, they begin to notice you.

Comments

FIVE ALARM FUCK THIS

[onlyhymns]

I. The Library

Maker help him, this is where he had to be at the start.
Working late, Cade was at a table by the window when it rattled with the force of the storm, and has been peering out between writing passages, watching the rain and the ice. He's familiar with Kirkwall winters, and although the weather seems a little worse than usual, surely it's not--

--the window blows open, extinguishing his candle, soaking him with rainwater, and scattering papers everywhere. Cade turns with a muttered curse to stoop and collect them, but upon looking up he's met with the sight of three hanging bodies.
A cry of horror, the papers dropped, and the stumbling realization that not only does he recognize these figures: he remembers how they got here, and was-- though his memory is foggy on these matters-- perhaps even part of it.
A sound somewhere between a whine and a moan escapes him as he skirts the area, tripping over every chair and fixture on the way, his mind racing beyond any sensibility as he stumbles for the door.

II. The Gallows Courtyard

Staggering out into the hail, Cade shields his head with one shaking arm and blinks at his surroundings: he's been up late, did he imagine it? There's an awful sound on the wind, like a child screaming, and-- no, it can't be.
He steps toward the courtyard in disbelief, lowering his arm to see better: more bodies, more nooses, more memories, all too recent. "No," he whimpers to no one-- is that Knight-Commander Meredith's voice?-- and he turns to see as she and Orsino quibble at the steps. He knows what comes next, he can still smell it, feel the shudder of his bones and the seizing of his heart; he looks toward the Chantry, where it should still stand for this to make sense, and yet the space is empty save for a few trees.
Has this all been a dream, had he imagined it, has he lost his mind? Did he ever leave Meredith's side, did he ever see the things he saw, or-- worse, has he been living his life past these moments, only to be visited with some sort of divine punishment?
What other explanation could there be?
He falls to his knees on the wet cobblestones, gripping at his hair with a plaintive wail barely as loud as that of the ghostly voices around him.

III. ???

[We'll figure something out!]

Library

[circleprodigy]

Cade isn't the only one working late. Inessa, not willing to retreat to her quarters just yet, sits at a nearby table with books piled around her, scribbling notes as efficiently as possible before retiring for the night. Garahel is dozing at her feet, his legs twitching a little here and there as he dreams of an exciting chase.

She's content to ignore the winter weather outside, at least until the window blows open. Letting out a cry of dismay as her own papers suddenly scatter, she tries to snatch them before the rain and wind destroy her efforts of the night. So intent is she that Inessa doesn't hear Garahel's growl at first, the mabari suddenly awake and alert. He stands tense for a moment, then bolts ahead to Inessa's surprise.

"Garahel--!" The mabari doesn't stop until he's in front of Cade, growling and barking at the hanging bodies.

tessa | ota; will match prose or brackets

[zombra]

{ i. anywhere you want her }

It's easy to blame things on magic when she doesn't understand how it even works, and so Tessa is firmly in the camp of "mages will fix it, right?" In the meantime, she does her best to avoid coming across any of this spirit bull. But it soon becomes clear that that's impossible as she's surrounded by sounds. The first is: The sound of something heavy, wet, and meaty being dragged (or— dragging itself) over stone, leaves, and mud. It starts at a distance, around a corner or down a hall, and approaches the listener at a steady but painfully slow pace, easily walked away from. If for some reason you choose to stay still, however, the sound will come all the way to your feet, where its half strangled breaths are a little clearer. Tessa stops where she is and whirls around, eyes wide. It sounds like a zombie. Are these spirits raising zombies? She will punch a spirit in the ghostly face if that's true.

"Where's it coming from?" she asks aloud, her hackles raised.

—

Later on, she's someplace else when more sounds enter the area. There are: The squelch of mud and a drone of sound that gradually resolves into dozens of voices all at once, some near and others farther, all Orlesian. Cries of pain, pleas for help or for death, frantic prayers, angry wailing, the shriek of horses dying badly. Tessa stops in place as her stomach lurches. The voices aren't familiar, but the sounds of battle are. Her eyes stare off into the middle distance as she recalls scenes from the Battle of Ghislain, and she lifts a hand up to her head, where her head wound is still healing; scabbed over with a line of hair missing above her right ear.

"Not real," she finally mutters to herself. "Pull it together."


{ ii. the courtyard }

It's become evident that there's no place safe from these sounds and visions. The spirits are trying to get a reaction out of them, and they'll follow into any room, basement, or crawlspace they can. At one point, Tessa comes out into the courtyard to avoid it all, and that's when she does a double take. A Steelers helmet? Why the hell is there a— She gasps, legs shaking as she takes in the rest of the scene. It's a child's bedroom, and right there kneeling on the floor is Mike. For one heartbreaking second, she forgets everything else. He's here; he made it. He wasn't left behind in her world, stranded on the roof of a hospital overrun by zombies. She takes a step forward, and reality sinks in.

"A couple shamblers out there. Nothing big. I'm not worried."

"No." It's said quietly as she stops, reaching out a shaking hand towards the figure in the bedroom.

"What's it matter now? I could be a plumber for all you know."

"You're not really here. These goddamn—"

"Tessa... c'mon. If you don't like it, then sure, go head out there on your own. See how long you last. Though it'd be a goddamned waste after all the time I spent keeping you alive."

Despair washes over her like a wave of freezing cold water and she sinks to her knees on the stone. This was pulled out of her memories and dropped down in front of her. These spirits want to taunt her with the person she loves; the person she'll never see again. Fury and devastation war with each other for dominance in her mind. How do you kill a spirit? She wants to erase them all from existence. But she she sits back on her heels and stares at Mike, who has stopped talking and is just sat leaning against the wall with his eyes closed now. Time passes, and the scene doesn't fade, so she doesn't move away.

{ iii. wildcard }

Drop a hot starter in my inbox if nothing here tickles your fancy.

ii

[assistente]

Someone clears their throat.

It isn't Salvio, actually. He is there, in the doorway: hunched back, slumped shoulders, the worn sleeves of his well-washed robe bunched nervously over his hands. He looks cautious, nervous, his eyes blinking rapidly as he takes in the sight of the room.

But he didn't clear his throat. The tall spindled specter beside him did. The man is wearing a pale green robe, and a fine belt. His goatee is neatly trimmed. He looks almost corporeal, but catch him in the right light and the stone of the wall behind him might be visible.

The man scowls, disapproving. "This is it?" Fereldan by accent, but the sharp sniff that he gives next is universal, obvious. "Really, the widespread fragility is worrying. Astounding. Room after room of a kind of mundane sadness--"

Salvio is ignoring him outright, not even looking around at the spirit as the man talks on, adding to his litany of critique. Salvio wouldn't be looking at him, anyways. He is focused on Tessa.

"He's," he starts, from the doorway. Unwilling or unable to cross the threshold. He winces, tries again. "You're, um. Aware?"

Adasse || What the Fuck of the Fuck || OTA

[gottakeeponejumpahead]

1. The Ramparts

Adasse had been up on the roofs again, gently easing himself back into climbing high places and running along edges. He figured, with his hip, the higher the better because otherwise he'd be too much of a damned coward to go the whole way. Higher up meant he had to finish the walk across the crest of the roof, and he did so just before the snow-ice-rain? started to really come down. He grumbled, but climbed off the roof and one of the ramparts -

All around, the sound of gunfire and canons, then the sound of first horses and soldiers running from the right, and the inhuman growl of a werewolf that stands seven feet tall comes from the left, both of them running towards Adasse, juststanding there. Just before they crash into him, and each other, they vanish as suddenly as they come.

Adasse had ducked - OF COURSE HE FUCKING DUCKED he was surrounded by soldiers, horses and a WEREWOLF - and when he looked up - nothing.

"What the Maker's Balls of the ... what?"

He called out, "OI, did anyone else just see that?"

II

He manages to make it down to the lower, common areas in what could only be graciously called 'a frightened rabbit' run, not looking behind him because if he looked behind him then whatever the MAKER BOLLOCKS this was would catch him.

He skids into the Inquisition's mess hall just as -

A vague, shadowy horde of people equipped and shouting for battle that rushes forward, then stops abruptly to scream and be reduced to bone and ash, without any visible flames.

He stares where the people were - were not - aren't anymore - before he throws his hands up. "Right. Right. Anyone know when the next boat out of here is? Because I am on it. I'm done. Totally done. All done."

III - Personal Hell

Sooner or later, you'll come across Adasse on his own. He's sitting down on a barrel, both of his hands in his hair and sharp, heavy breaths coming out of his mouth, as if he's in the middle of a panic attack. He keeps looking down the hallway, and in the near distance you see two dark haired elves, being subdued by darkspawn. The woman screams, as the darkspawn begins to drag her off, and the darkhaired one struggles on the ground only to have one of the darkspawn tear his arm off his body and begin to eat it. The woman screams again and struggles, forcing the darkspawn trying to pull her back to sink their claws into her, shredding her flesh open. Blood and ichor flows, freely.

Then, it is gone.

Only to begin again.

Adasse starts to whimper.

III

[zombra]

Tessa's been seeing and hearing some weird shit so far, and it seems like she can't run and hide from it all. But boy, does she try. Her boots thud heavily on the floor of the hallway as she escapes from sounds of death and destruction behind her. No matter how often she repeats to herself that it isn't real, she still gets caught off guard every time and tries to beat a hasty retreat out of the area.

When she turns the corner to find the scene laid before her, she stops, body tensing as she spots those gross people attacking elves. What are they? Her kneejerk reaction is "zombies," but she knows that can't be it. Yet they're eating one, so they may as well be.

"What the fuck?" she says, only the tiniest bit relieved when the creatures take no notice of her. Okay, so this is more magic illusion spirit crap. But that doesn't mean it isn't awful. When it disappears, she feels as though she's no longer rooted to the ground, but then it begins again like one of those ten hour looping YouTube video. Great.

At least she's not ignorant to the young man seated nearby, clearly freaking out over the scene. Tessa isn't far off from it herself. People eating people is something she's sadly witnessed before. Tearing at body parts, screeching and screaming; she knows it well. She still sees and hears it at times when she's in bed at night. Turning towards him, she murmurs, "Can you walk away from it? Or will it follow you?"

Inessa | OTA

[circleprodigy]

I. Library

Inessa enters the library with Garahel at her side and a pile of books in her arms. As the mabari plops down by her usual table, the slight elven woman makes her way around the stacks, shelving those she brought with her as a courtesy. She has one more to go, when battle suddenly erupts all around her.

Screams, blasts and burning parchment catch her attention as Inessa drops that last book and runs toward the noises. It’s on her mind to call Garahel to her and cast protective magic, but any orders or spells die in her throat the moment she emerges from the stacks. The bodies of circle mages, plenty of them familiar and some of them children, litter the floor, as abominations thunder toward survivors. They respond with a flurry of blasts and barriers, but it’s not enough; either the mages under attack flee or they die.

As another mage falls right beside her, she jumps and snaps out of her paralysis, but blind panic takes over. Her heart pounding in her chest, she races to the upper levels. The intervening years fade away and she’s nothing but a scared child looking for somewhere to hide. Even as she tries, though, that’s no easy feat. Abominations and demons haven’t decimated the upper levels yet, but Inessa isn’t alone. A voice hisses nearby. “Quiet! Both of you! I think I heard something. Keep your eyes open….”


II. Courtyard

a. It’s late when Inessa leaves the central tower, tired and already a little on edge. The slight elven woman makes a beeline for the mage tower, eager for the solace of her own quarters. It’s been a long day, and she could do with a few hours’ quiet and rest before dealing with whatever else is to come. But the Veil is too thin, and spirits too attracted to her already rattled state. She only takes a few more steps forward before coming to an abrupt halt, heart pounding as she takes in the sight of the bodies before her.

They’re spread out in a circle, faces and bodies twisted in agony. A chalice lays on its side in the center, dark liquid spilling forth. The puddle spreads and spreads, toward the lone Warden standing, who freezes and grips her staff tightly, knuckles turning white.

b. Later on, she can be seen crossing the courtyard, her stride quick though it’s not enough to outpace the ghostly figure in Warden armor following close behind. She glances behind her shoulder often, a look of loathing on her face, and her mind is so distracted that it’s only a matter of time before she crashes into someone living.

III. Chapels/Prayer Garden

Trying to regain some sense of calm, Inessa takes to visiting the nearest chapel whenever the torn Veil overwhelms her with familiar sights and sounds. The slight elf woman doesn’t pray aloud, but she bows her head, reciting them silently. However, that isn’t to say it’s completely silent all the time. Sometimes, disembodied voices can be heard reciting the Chant in unison...and sometimes the voice of a young woman humming softly near Inessa causes her to stiffen and sit up straight, peering around with a longing gaze. But there’s no one else in sight.

IV. Wildcard?

Hit me up with something.

III

[swordproof]

It probably does not come as a surprise to find Six making her way to the Chapel, finding a place to hide from her own demons. They're not all bad, necessarily, but she cannot trust them, terrified of what it means to see the image of them here, scared of what it might mean for her. Spotting Inessa, she hesitates, feeling on edge and unsure, her eyes darting from the woman to the door before she makes her way over.

"Do you - mind?"

Nari, OTA

[nadasharillen]

I. Herb Garden

There's a makeshift shelter rigged over one of the benches. Unused trellising, its occupant vine dry and shriveled for the season, provides the tented shape of it, and a still-dirty tarp is lashed over the frame; it flaps in the driving wind that sweeps in over the walls of the courtyard sometimes. Inside sits Nahariel, wrapped in an oilcloth cloak, every line of her form and all her formidible focus turned towards the glow that shares the space with her.

"--I know, da'halla. You wouldn't be happy. Betrayal of the People and all that. But he needs me, and I need him, and it's hard sometimes, but what isn't. And we're happy. I think. As happy as you get." Nari smiles sheepishly. "He brings me tarts. I'd never had tarts. That's kind of like a buck, right?"

The faint and shimmering figure of Siuona Dahlasanor continues to look down at the sachets of tea she's compiling with a small smile, reaching up every so often to tuck one of the locks of hair that have fallen forward behind her ear. It will slide back down again soon, like it always had.

II. Courtyard, night (CW: gore, racism, allusions to rape)

Some of it is sweet. Birdsong, laughter, children playing hide-and-seek amongst the crates. Most of it is horror, and it keeps growing. But until she smelled it, that overpowering stench of burnt meat in the shifting spirit-light of the courtyard that changes like fire, none of them had been hers. A high pitched scream of denial stops Nari dead in her tracks, the chill of animal horror racing down her spine as the Fade-dwellers shift and blossom into the pandemonium of a Dalish camp in full blaze, cruel laughter and whooping issuing from men--and a few women--in patchwork armor casually chopping through the linked hands of those elves trying to pull their clanmates from beneath collapsing aravels. It's larger than life, all of it, as if viewed by a child.

She shuts her eyes, covers her face with both hands and shakes her head to clear it, but Ilriane is still screaming, muffled now.

(For Ghost!Cade)

It's the armor that draws her. It's recent; very recent. This battle that flickers through the streets isn't like the others. Not the Tevenes, nor the slaves, not the older renditions of the Chantry's flaming sword, the different slant of their pauldrons. This one could be taking place now. She's only started to begin to wonder when something else catches her eye. They're all helmeted, all covered, all the same except for shape, form, movement, but--

But she would know him in any crowd.

i [quiet sobbing]

[faithlikeaseed]

"Nari?"

She's surely still familiar with the sound of Myr finding his way around with careful steps and staff. With the way he reaches cautiously to find the trellis and its flapping tarp with a hand, to make himself certain of the structure he can't see. He knows--this is probably a one-sided conversation he shouldn't be privy to, and so waits once he's said her name, blindfolded face turned aside to demonstrate deliberate inattention in the Circle mode.

"Are you talking to--" It's strange; Sina shouldn't be hard to say a year out. The grief has aged, no longer the heart-tearing sort of thing that still haunted after him for Evrion's sake. It never had been quite the same to begin with: They'd known beforehand with Sina. And his last glimpse of her had let his heart believe she'd only gone away for a while, was simply off gardening in a far fairer land than Kirkwall, to return to them when she'd time.

"Is Sina with you?"

SIX | OTA

[swordproof]

I. THE COURTYARD ( SARENRAE ).

It starts with a soft mutter. It's gentle whispers in her mind; prayers, echoing over and over, reminding her of what she had lost and what she had given up, something that had been taken from her on arrival.

When last light fades from mortal eyes, know that the immortals have taken thine light unto their own hands.

It echoes around where Six had been hovering, despite the weather, finding a peace of quiet amidst the ice and the storm. Head bowed and eyes closed, she doesn't seem to notice the way that her hair sticks to her face, coming undone from the bun that keeps it from her eyes, straw yellow and dark from the damp. It seems a little like she's in some kind of trance; Six doesn't seem to realise that the words aren't in her mind, are whispers around her, something like and softly growing touching her shoulder.

When the night is darkest in the places that have never known light, I will go with you and I will burn bright.

Long arms embrace Six as a figure, bright and gentle in the wake of what seems like Six herself freezing with tension. When her eyes open, there's nothing in her eyes that suggests that she's unafraid or on edge, just a brief surge of horror before her head turns and she looks at the spirit behind her, the shape that it has taken, plucked from her mind to play her like a string. Standing up, she steps back, unsure and uncertain, briefly phased by the fact that She is here, greeting her - Six cannot wrap her mind around the idea that this might be a spirit.

Her Anchor feels like it is sparking. It is not, but the pain is there all the same.

Huge, lumbering creature that she is, she makes quite the sound when she drops to her knees, bruising the skin down to the bone as she sobs, a hiccupping noise from the back of her throat, reaching for the being that she cannot quite believe is there (who isn't - she isn't - Faith has come to her -)

It's not a scream, but it almost is.

II. THE LIBRARY ( ADRIAN ).

The soft light of Faith keeps other spirits from her, at least for a little while. What happens when the day turns dark, however, is other spirits coming out to play, seeking out the power and strength and intensity of Six and her devotion to Sarenrae, to what is in her heart. Her desperate cries turn into more soft prayers, seeking out Sarenrae and accepting what the spirit offers her without pause or hesitation. The Spirit of Faith comes and goes, gentle and soft, flickering between her and other people she thinks that needs her help - and it's in one of those moments that the other ghost appeared.

Clink. Clang -

The heft of armour is not unfamiliar. Six is half-asleep, seeking solace in the quiet of the library, unsure if she can trust her dream image of Sarenrae and unsure if she can believe in it herself. Her head rests on her arms, hair curling around her, let down from its usual bun as she makes soft noises, almost muttering to herself as she sleeps. The spiritual hand moves, tracing the shape of her head, not quite touching, soft and gentle.

A tall man, he looms over her with her size softened by her seating. Wearing full armour, he looks as if he is designed to be the moon to Six's bright sun; dark where she is bright and blonde, dour where she is tanned from the sun, but twinned in the sharpness of their jawlines and the intensity of who they are. His fingers try to touch against their hair, head tilted, leaning down - it might seem ominous to an outsider, a strange being leaning over the strong Paladin, seeking her, breathing near her.

His voice, when he speaks, is low and gravelly.

"Cecilia."

III. WILDCARD ( ANYWHERE ).

( Find Six anywhere in the Gallows, with Sarenrae / Adrian, as you like! Feel free to ping me on plurk for something personal! )

II

[aceso]

There is no where in the Gallows that's safe, but Christine thinks perhaps she's enduring better than others are, because while the negative spirits are feeding off of people's emotions, she has a spirit of Faith by her side to remind her that she can be stronger than her fear or despair. That doesn't mean she hasn't become startled by what she's witnessed, but that she can pull herself out of it again.

And the figure looming over this Rifter isn't meant for Christine. She knows because she's never seen him before, and only vaguely knows of this person. She stands not far away, body tense but not frightened. Behind her, the thin Veil has made Faith visible to all, though her body is incorporeal. She's a steady presence watching over the scene, but not yet speaking.

"You do not belong here," Christine says to the man leaning over the Rifter woman. She knows that it's likely the spirit won't understand her. It's following its nature, and it took a long time of Faith observing Christine and asking questions before the spirit was better cognizant of the living world. But Christine will try anyway.

Cosima Niehaus | OTA (prose or brackets are fine)

[youwonscience]

I. Infirmary

Cosima's affected very early on -- so early on, in fact, that she doesn't know that it's something widespread and thoroughly misdiagnoses what it is. She's walking to the infirmary with dread in her stomach, because she woke up with blood spattering the pillow, and the first thing she thinks isn't What's happening, but rather Oh, this, finally.

She hasn't called Herian on the sending crystal yet, and she's not sure if that's bravery or cowardice. But she wants to see how bad it is, first. She's braced for anything between "a little" and "very." She isn't at all braced for "you're the same as always."

II. Gallows, various places

Later, when she knows that whatever is happening is happening to other people too, she decides to try to find the people she cares about. Strength in numbers -- especially if whatever is happening is about fear and despair, being alone is no good for anyone. Depending on where you find her, she might be determinedly walking down a hall, ignoring the wracking echo of a cough that bounces off the walls behind her; she might be edging along, trying not to interact with the echoes of the glass walls of an institute that is in Canada and definitely not Thedas.

Or she might have caught herself against a wall, shaking a bit, after unexpectedly running across a pile of dead women who all wear variations on her own face.

III. Wildcard

[Hit me up if you want to talk about something before you jump in.]

ii

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Cos?"

Some of the weird shit going on has been...unkind, that he knows. Sometimes there's birdsong in the air in the dead of winter, sometimes there are half-dead bodies pinned to the wall. It's a real fucking toss-up. So that there's something that's spooked Cosima isn't surprising in and of itself. Shit's spooky.

"Hey, it's okay, you know it's just what the fuck whaaaat the fuck is that!" That's a pile of bodies. Ghost bodies! It's fine. It's okay! They're just bodies that aren't really there that are all women that's fucked up wait a good god damn second-- "What the fuck is that!" He sure does know that face, and some variations thereof! On all those dead women. Mmhm.

Finel | OTA (either prose or brackets)

[malavhenan]

I. A random hallway probably near the dormitories

It's been three days since he's arrived.

Three days is hardly enough time to become familiar with all of the places in the Gallows, hardly enough time to learn the names and faces of many people here, let alone form many friendships. The Inquisition is...an overwhelming experience. There's so much to learn, so many different kinds of people that have all come to gather in this place. The stone cold of the Gallows and of Kirkwall's streets so very different from the wilder areas of the Free Marches he had roamed with his clan.

But for the first time in a long time, he had felt a thrilling excitement, finally free from the lingering darkness that had trailed him for so long.

And yet it seemed as though he would not be free of it just yet.

Earlier Finel had heard a few rumors of hauntings from some others passing by. Given the insidious past of the Gallows, it hardly seemed surprising that something might linger, a shadow of memory imprinted into the very walls.

Finel wanders, lost not for the first time trying to find his way from the dormitory to the library. Aside from the snippets of conversation he'd overheard, he hasn't yet met anyone else nor manged to get far enough to realize the scope of what is really happening all over the Gallows.

"Finel."

The aching familiarity of the call of his name has him whirling around sharply, and Finel feels his heart stop in his chest at the sight of the man in front of him. Long, deep chestnut hair braided away from a handsome face adorned with the symbol of Andruil. High cheekbones balanced with a stronger, squarer jaw than Finel's own, and warm, amber-colored eyes glint above a charming smile.

"...Talen?" his voice wavers with shock, in utter disbelief until Finel realizes the form before him is transparent, the remainder of the hallway easily visible through his body.

"I've missed you, vhenan." The figure floats closer, reaches out ghostly hand as though to caress his cheek, leaving a chill on his skin even as he begins to tremble. "Why didn't you find me?"

"I tried," he whispers, an all too familiar pain twisting hard in his chest. "I-" the rest of his words evaporate as a thin line appears across Talen's throat, and then slowly widens. Dark red liquid spills forth, faster and faster the wider the gash becomes, opening until the head rolls grotesquely back, an excruciating expression frozen on the face.

He screams, bolting back down towards the other end of the hall only to be met with the ghostly figure again, whole once more.

"I've missed you, vhenan," it says once more, and reaches for him again. No matter which direction he tries to flee, it follows. Finel finally collapses into a corner, back pressed up against the wall and knees drawn in, hands covering his face as tears fall uncontrollably. Talen floats around him, calling his name, reaching for him, and dying on endless repeat.


II. Anywhere he's needed

Much later, after he's learned what's really going on and feeling stronger and more determined, Finel is moving with more purpose, seeking out others who might be caught within their own horrors and offering his help. Talen still occasionally appears in corners of rooms or at the end of a hallway, but he pushes past him now, focused on aiding others.

I

[dirth]

Solas is more accustomed to this than anyone else in the Gallows could hope to be, he thinks.

Spirits wandering around freely because of weakness in the Veil is something he knows intimately, deep and close to his heart. It is the way things had been when he had been far, far younger than he is now, far more naive in the way that the world might work. He had learned lessons from those experiences, of course, but that does not mean he was completely happy with himself; despair clings to him as he sees age old ghosts of the Gallows come to life around him, draining him.

This is not exactly what it had been like before. Not better, not worse, but not the same. It is almost like a mockery more than anything else and he loathes it; loathes that it is what he wants but not what he wants at the same time, something that rubs him the wrong way and makes him seethe.

There are many people that need his help, that seek aid, and Solas is not about to abandon them all - no matter who they might be. His frustrations with the Dalish does not mean he intends to ignore them when they are suffering like this, and he finds someone who needs help - and, so, he comes to them. Ignoring the spirit, he reaches out and puts a hand on Finel's shoulder, gentle, soothing, an anchor.

"Just look at me." A pause, to see if the man reacts, careful. "Then look past me and relax."

Benedict, OTA

[altusimperius]

I. The Former Mage Tower

Stay calm, don't get excited: these repeated commands to himself are as important for his mental health as they are for his physical, since running anywhere is out of the question. But Benedict, being a mage, has seen the Fade before, and he knows what a spirit looks like. None of this is real, even if it feels that way. Sounds that way. ...smells.

He's making his slow, shuffling way along the hall, dressing gown held tight around himself as much for security as for warmth, a look of strain on his handsome face. There's something dragging itself behind him, but he won't turn to look; he has to stare straight ahead, or he's certain he'll go mad.

II. The Courtyard

If anyone knows what's going on and they aren't already in the offices, they'll be here. But the weather is miserable and the sights are gruesome, people are running every which way, and Benedict isn't confident there will be any answers to be found. But he tries anyway, attempting to flag down each person who passes him:
"Wait--"
"Hey--"
"What's happened?"


for Myr, Lexie and Leander

"Shivana?"
The head of blond hair is familiar, and so is the blindfold, though hadn't he discarded it? Benedict approaches cautiously, sidelong, waiting for Myr to change into something else. He looks real, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything at the moment.

for Lakshmi

"BENEDICT," comes an exasperated cry, and he whirls to see its source: the back of someone familiar, but was that voice--
"...Mother?" he asks, stepping towards the woman. She looks real, which is wrong: her hair is black and her skin is golden brown, like his, but how could she be here?

[faithlikeaseed]

It is, indeed, Myr in the flesh and not a spirit imitating him (though there'd been one or two of those he'd seen around before taking up the blindfold again--), and he lifts his head at the sound of his name. "Benedict?" There's a hesitation about the name; Myr's entire manner is wary (and exhausted) of an ambush.

But Benedict seems solid enough--and really, what advantage would a spirit get from mimicking him that they aren't managing better by taking other shapes? "If it is you, you might not want to stick around," Myr adds, somewhere between wry and worried.

The words are scarcely out of his mouth before one of them puts on an appearance, perhaps hopeful of an opening--or simply interested in a new victim. The--thing--forming behind Benedict doesn't invite close inspection; it is a teratoma (hair and teeth and nails and peeled-muscle wetness where none should be, a suggestion of fleshy involutions that fold impossibly together) grown of the Fade itself, breathing though it shouldn't, obscenely drawing the eye.

James

[judgemewhole]

The Templar Tower

It is the screams of a little girl crying for her mother that drag James out of a light sleep. He bolts up right in his cot, and beside his bed, Interceptor whimpers from his nest of blankets. James hisses out a breath, reaching for his armor and his sword, whistling softly for the mabari to come to heel.

He moves towards the door to his small quarters and throws it open. The screams are loud, so loud, and he starts to make his way towards the basement to find the cause.

He is also praying under his breath, to any who might find him on the ground floor, looking down at the basement hatch with a look of dread on his narrow expression.

The Courtyard

As the night presses on, so do the horrors, and so does James Norrington. Where-ever he travels in the Courtyard, whereever he sees a spirit he immediately has taken to going to one knee and starting to pray. It doesn't last long, but it does make the spirits disappear for a few minutes, and that is sometimes all the reprieve needs.

Now, he stands grimly, watching another scene unfold; Guylian, Knight-Commander of the Gallows c. 9:21 Dragon, is forcibly prepared for execution by a group of mercenaries. The vision ends with Guylian hanging from the neck until dead.

James has watched this twice now. No matter how many times he tries to dispell it, it still reappears.

A soft mutter, easily overheard, "Marvelous, I always wanted to know what happened to Knight Commanders around here. Either hanged or turned into giant red statues -- what a marvelous future I have awaiting me..."

III - Wildcard with horror option, just let me know!

The Courtyard

[circleprodigy]

After all she's seen by now, the image of that Knight-Commander hanging doesn't startle it as it would have before. That said, Inessa isn't any less sickened, seeing the body sway. Stepping in closer by James, she draws in a deep breath.

"...no. No, it's not your future. It's the wounded Veil, messing with all of us. Don't look at this as anything other than that, James. At least try...."

Fingon | OTA

[utulien_aure]

i. The Library

The storm drags on without signs of letting up, and after some time Fingon takes refuge in the library, looking for something new to read. A history is too glum for the day’s endless drudgery, but perhaps something lighter….

That’s when he smells something familiar- a faint whiff of sulfur, faint at first but growing quickly more evident. “Odd,” he mutters to himself, and turns to see if someone’s using the library for an experiment.

Only to meet a pair of familiar eyes in a golden, lizardlike face. It almost seems to smile.

“Dragon!” Fingon shouts without thinking, and in lieu of a better weapon throws the book he was holding at the creature. But the book sails through the golden scales of Glaurung, Father of Dragons, and lands on the floor with a thud.

ii. The Hallways

A sphere of dark crystal rolls down the halls of the Gallows, it’s momentum never fading or failing it. And behind it stalks Fingon, tense and worried. It would be good to grab the sphere if he can, to get it out of others’ reach-

But every time he draws near, it slides out of his hands- and then the sphere changes, depicting not dark clouds but a horseman in silver armor, a shining sword in hand. The rider charges toward a giant figure, an abyss in the shape of a man, and attempts to strike it down. But the duel plays out the same every time, and each time the scene appears the horseman crumbles in the end.

And every time, something in Fingon’s face crumbles at the sight.

iii. The Courtyard

The rain is miserable and the ice worse, but Fingon feels the need for fresher air all the same. And as he crosses the courtyard, his wish is granted- if not in the way that he expected. In the moment between one breath and the next something changes in the air, and lingering between the raindrops is the ghost of a summer’s night, and a glimpse of a sky aglow with mingled gold and silver light.

And then the city of his birth unfurls before him, a gossamer dream draped over the grim Gallows. It is the Great Square of Tirion he sees, its dazzling walls of marble and diamond dust reflecting the Light back onto itself. There is Galathilion, the white tree at the square’s heart, and beyond it his grandfather’s house and the slender tower that rose high above it. Others linger in the square, elves dressed in gemstones and brocades as they talk and laughed and argue in the heart of their city. If he turns his head, Fingon knows, he will see the streets that would bring him to his childhood home- and a Gallows wall as well, of course, visible just under beneath the image. He does not turn, does not spoil it, but lingers for a little while nonetheless.


iv. The Ramparts

It begins with a song.

Light of the world, poured into us… echoes through the halls, the singer’s voice cracked and harsh as a raven’s cry. We lift our voices loud in praise-

“-our hearts to hope,” Fingon echoes, as his heart thunders almost too loud to hear. And then he follows, as he did once before. What else could he possibly do?

He finds the singer where he expects: pinned to a mountain cliff (a Gallows tower, he notes, in the part of his mind that can still pay attention) by one misshapen arm, the hand at the end turning mottled green and black from lack of blood flow. The prisoner’s eyes are dim, his face skeletal, and if the pattern holds Fingon knows already what this being will say.

“How dare you,” he hisses, letting grief fuel his rage. “Do you so wish to die, spirit? Because I can give you that, if you’d like.”

And this thing has the temerity to smile with his cousin’s face, to ask in his beloved’s voice, Please.

iii

[faithlikeaseed]

"--oh."

If Myr had wandered out of the Gallows and into the Golden City, he could not be more surprised nor wider-eyed than he is now. (It's a surprise driven in no small part by contrast; this is worlds away from the horrors he's been feeling, the obscenities that throng the Gallows with the Veil thinned nearly to nothing.)

He sets his foot down, caught as he was mid-step by the sudden vision, and stares unashamedly at the peacock-bright elves, the brilliant walls, the tree set in the center like a vhenadahl kissed by the Maker's grace itself. It suggests things, conjures things, that Sorrel's description of what elves had been never could; Myr's only the hints in Thranduil's stories to lead the idea the elvhen could be so noble as--

As this. "O Creating Glory," he breathes. "Where is this?"

[starts screaming] [doesn't stop screaming] (ota) (cw: trauma, racism mentions, gore)

[faithlikeaseed]

i. central tower
A long day stretched thin by cares, a quiet moment in the Chantry Relations office: Myr is drifting off to sleep as the Veil thins, collapsed on his arms over a pile of books he'd meant to bring Cade in the library. Wind sends rain lashing against the window as the storm worsens and reality shifts--the slide of it like a bone come loose of its joint enough to startle Myr awake in a hypnic jerk that sends both him and the books to the floor. Groaning, disoriented and swearing, he shoves the chair aside to roll back to his feet--

Lifts his head and locks eyes (and eyes, and eyes) with a spirit folded in all the shapes of his nightmares.

It is good his hands are otherwise occupied.

The chair clatters to the floor; an unearthly shriek rings down the hall. Magic responds faster than thought (OUT need to be OUT get OUT OUT OUT) and he nearly rebounds off the wall opposite his office door, the fade step ending a hair's-breadth from the stones. Down the hall at a run, to the stairs to take them two at a time--splashing through an intangible slick of blood pouring down one wall-- He achieves the fourth floor in record time, Fade wrapped around him like a cloak to go through anyone in his way to the library. The suggestion of hanging bodies above the tables barely stops them; he brushes past their feet and darts into an alcove, tipping over the table and shoving it against the entryway as a makeshift barrier to huddle behind.

Leisurely, the monsters pour down the stairs and after him, the spirits delighting in malformation and moving on limbs in impossible configurations. They are grotesque, unique, some wreckages of flesh and bone, others the semblance of wholesome living things that look more and more wrong the longer they're stared at. A sanguine and opportunistic lot, they don't mind finding other people to look at them--so long as they get a response out of the interaction.

ii. prayer garden
If he doesn't look at the obscenities following him, he doesn't have to think about them. If he keeps moving away from them as they appear, he has his back to them; if he keeps his back to them, he doesn't have to look at them, and so the spirits are gradually herding him through the Gallows with their erratic schedule of appearance and disappearance. By comparison to them, the other sights Myr encounters on his grim peregrination are an almost-welcome distraction. The circus performers alone are worth a few minutes of curious staring until one of them catches a blade through her stomach, and Myr flinches and moves on.

Inevitably he makes it to the prayer garden and for the first time since the Veil thinned, the atrocities stop following him. A mercy that Myr doesn't notice immediately--he's not looking when they reach the boundary of the garden and dissolve--but when he does he breathes out a prayer of thanks for it and collapses bonelessly on a bench. It's wet and miserable, but he's got an oiled cloak and he's alone at last--

Or not. A flicker out of the corner of his eye tugs his attention toward a little tree in one corner. A gauze-thin tableau plays out beneath it: An elf in homespun, his features both kind and familiar, reaches up as if pruning the winter-bare branches above him. A human man steps into sudden view, speaks a word--the slur obvious on his lips--and clubs the gardener to the ground with his fist. Between one breath and the next, between ignorance and sudden certainty, the shem's drawn his sword and run the elf through the heart.

"Dad--!"

There isn't any stopping the loop or separating the spirits. It wouldn't even matter if he did: This is past and over. But that doesn't keep Myr from bolting off the bench to try.

iii. whenever, wherever
He's kicking himself for not thinking of the blindfold sooner. (Though perhaps that's because it felt a little like conceding failure.) Truthfully, the sounds of the Gallows haunted alone are as bad as the sights--but without having to deal with one, Myr can amply handle the other and achieve something like a functional state. Without someone to look upon them the obscenities grow less frequent in their appearances and he can focus on helping where and who he can--

Unfortunately he's picked up another kind of tail entirely. A much noisier one. Full Hasmali mourning dress--was not something a mage could afford or would even be permitted, but a much younger Myr had done his damnedest with robes dyed haphazardly black and face smudged with ink and ashes. This apparition lies bathetically on whatever flat surface might be most like a bed, or straggles after his harried subsequent to regale him with all the execrable poetry that might be bled from a broken heart. "Without her, there is only life without relief; the Maker's very stars would veil themselves in grief..."

"She didn't fucking die," the real Myr mutters beneath his breath. "She got transferred. We kept writing her for years. You're embarrassing yourself."

Fat lot of good that does to say. His ghostly antecedent gives a put-upon sigh. "You don't understand. Have you ever even been in love?"

Maker preserve him.

iv. wildcard
(hmu & we can do another thing! Plagueheart#0051 on Discord; plagueheart)

i

[swordproof]

Six has learned to accept the spirit that hangs on her shoulder like a weight, like a whisper in her ear. It echoes, over and over, the same chant repeated time after time after time; When last light fades from mortal eyes, know that the immortals have taken thine light unto their own hands.

When the night is darkest in the places that have never known light, I will go with you and I will burn bright.

It echoes and she's sure she's not the only one who can hear it now. The spirit seems to hum with the prayer, making Six feel stronger than she's ever been.

Together, they attempt to soothe the horrors of the demonic presence, demanding that any that are haunting, damning, destroying someone else be folded away, tucked back into their place in the Veil. She doesn't understand how this has happened, why there is an image of Sarenrae - because she does not trust that it is truly her God come to her, not when she still has no powers and no strength - but she knows enough to think she should not ignore the chance to take advantage of it.

Cleaving through them with spirit and sword in hand, Six rests a hand against the door, breathing out hard. She thinks she knows who is on the other side.

"Myrobalan."

Kitty Jones | OTA

[rathercommon]

i. empty chairs at empty etc.
There are ten of them, at different times. An old man with a cane and a wheeze as he breathes, a teenager with spots and a frown, a slight boy with an intense manner, a girl with curly hair, a kid who seems like he's always listening to something somewhere far away - they come and go, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, sometimes all at once.

Sometimes they're silent. Sometimes they just stand there, staring at her, watching her as she goes about her day. Sometimes, though, they're raucous - arguing fiercely with one another. About anything and everything. They argue about the magicians - about how and why and where and when the leaders of England turned away from helping the people. They talk about whether anyone who ever uses magic can ever be righteous (and the conclusion they reach, every time, is probably not). However, mostly they argue about logistics - squabble, really - snapping and biting at each other about when their next mission should be, what they should do, who should go, what they should do, so on and so forth. It's fractious and discordant and chaotic.

Kitty tries to ignore it. She really does. She knows they're just ghosts. They're not here. But it's hard. How many years did she participate in these squabbles? Chiming in is second instinct. And so she can't help herself - more than once, she's opened her mouth, and responded. "You're an idiot, Stan," or "That's not right at all," or "We've got to be - " And then she catches herself, and snaps her jaw shut, and goes about her business.

ii. parents of the goddamn year
Kitty's other set of ghosts are very much alive. They, after all, are survivors through and through. Iris and Alfred Jones, a modestly-dressed, respectable-looking couple in their forties, don't follow Kitty, per se; rather, they just turn up whenever she turns a corner, or opens a new door, her dad sitting at a table reading a newspaper (all propaganda glorifying the English government), Mum fussing over dinner or darning socks.

They always look up. Sometimes, some encounters, they're sweet enough. "Where have you been, sweetheart?" Mum carols gently, while Dad gives her a stern look and admonishes her, "Kathleen, I hope you won't make a habit of wearing that out and about."

Sometimes they're desperate and grieving. Dad has his face in his hands, while Mum cries, "Come home. Please, come home. Please come back to us. We're sorry."

And sometimes - most often - they're raging. Dad hisses at her, "You are a disgrace to this family. You're no daughter of mine. I have no idea where I went wrong." And Mum sobs, "Just apologize, Kathleen, apologize to them. Say you're sorry."

All of these visitations are met with varying degrees of fury. The first two types, they get a hissed, "You're not real," from Kitty. But the last type - she turns pale, silent, furious. Her entire body goes tense, and she just glares at her ghosts, jaw set furiously.

But these ghosts don't visit Kitty alone. Sometimes, if you're nearby her, you might open a door to find Iris and Alfred. They'll look you over, haughty and judgmental, and say in a clipped and disapproving tone, "I do hope you're not tracking mud in here."

iii. awooooooooooooo, werewolves of london
And sometimes, the visitations are far more aggressive. Sometimes, you might be walking along, when you get a sense of something shadowed in a doorway. If you turn and look, they'll burst forth - monstrous creatures, part human and part animal, the proportions shifting with every moment. There are maybe half a dozen of them - some run on four legs, some on two - some have the muzzles of wolves, some hideous claws, while some carry crackling batons glowing with magical energy in their disturbingly human hands. All wear uniforms - gray, straining around their burly forms. They come straight for you, so realistic and detailed that you can see the saliva dripping from their jaws and see the claw-marks they gouge into the floors - and it is clear that they are hungry.

iv. history of the gallows
Sometimes, when Kitty has managed to dodge her ghosts, she takes the time to educate herself. She sits with a notebook and a pen, making tidy notes about the historical reenactments she's witnessed. Right now, she's watching a shadowy, ghostly mage be sentenced to tranquility; she frowns as she does, line deep between her brows.

v. wildcard
hmu

II

[altusimperius]

A door opens and closes, a sigh of nervous exasperation, a toss of shiny black hair.

"Kathleen," comes the name, and Benedict glances irritably back towards the door, "...is that you?" He looks more tired than judgmental, though he tries for a little smirk-- at least until an armored ghost strides over to him and, without warning, rears back its sword hand and thrusts through his midsection.

"AUGH!" Bene yelps, stumbling back, "STOP IT! STOP!!"

Byerly Rutyer

[bouchonne]

i. parents of the goddamn year (redux); cw incest + child abuse
It's not a full illusion, but you can get an impression of the room. If you look directly at it, it just looks like the Gallows, but out of the corner of your eye, you can see clutter; great stacks of moldering papers, piles of cloths being preserved for some unknown reason. Artefacts, historical traces of a warrior-family's fierce history - banners, trophies, maps, all in disrepair. Even with through the vagueness and sketchiness of the ghosts' illusions, one can tell that this household is diseased.

Two ghosts there. One is a young girl, perhaps fourteen. It doesn't take a Seeker of Truth to guess exactly who this is: the girl looks exactly like Byerly, with the same sleek dark hair and narrow jaw and lean build and devastatingly beautiful eyes. She's dressed in clothes of poor quality but decent cut, tailored painstakingly for her. (He'd sat and learned to sew specifically for her, so that she could carry out her duties looking like a lady instead of a slattern. His hand was still unsteady back then, but - he managed.) She's sitting on a couch, looking utterly furious, but completely silent.

Standing is a man - and little question who this is. He's not a man who's lived a pleasant life. His hair is gray, gone long and untidy. His clothes are old and dirty and falling apart and his face is unshaven. But he has those eyes, still, those lovely Rutyer eyes - he must have been handsome, once, this old man who looked old even at forty years, but that had decayed like this house.

"I know what you did," he says, his voice loathsome. Like the squirming things when you turn over a rock. Like the dark dust that gathers on wet wood.

Byerly - today's Byerly - doesn't speak in response. He's replayed this scene so many times in so many ways - in dreams, in his imagination - that he can't be lured into it, into reactions. He just stands, instead, with his face twisted in some emotion unrecognizable - perhaps grief, perhaps fury. But stepping out of the past is a younger Byerly, seventeen, lanky, ill-dressed - a young man who's still gawky and awkward and unsure in his skin - who bites back, "I didn't do anything."

ii. eats shoots and leaves
Here's a ghost. This one is a man whose face is...Well, unmemorable is the best word for it. Bland. The sort of face you can't remember as soon as you look away. Hair is an unremarkable blond-brown, face is neither round nor square, eyes are neither large nor small, build is neither short nor tall, voice is neither quiet nor loud. Expression is often neutral. Nothing to hang a memory on.

"The comma," this ghost says, "is used to introduce a clause with a new subject after a conjunction. It is not necessary here, as there is no new subject."

This ghost, Maker preserve us, is apparently a fanatic for grammar. A fanatic for grammar. He follows Byerly, but also others, especially if they're writing, looking over their shoulder, aggressively criticizing any flaws in their style or in their work generally.

Now - if someone is very well-connected, and very experienced in a particular sort of trade, and very perceptive, one might look at that bland face and remember. That yes, this is a face that is famous in certain circles. This is the face of one of Ferelden's spymasters. And they might wonder - why. But as for the others, they'll just be driven mad by this judgment.

[ specify whether you want Byerly in this thread; I can very happily NPC Grammar Ghost if you just want your character tormented ]

iii. penis penis penis
Also there's a voice whispering in your ear, "Penis penis penis penis penis" when you're trying to write. Sorry.

iv. wildcard...?
LET'S GO WILD

I

[indissection]

Sidon is well versed in all kinds of strange and macabre things; she had lived a life completely dedicated to it, studying bodies and corpses and medicine, seeking the desperate position of Mortalitasi and having it stolen from her. She was more than prepared for anything that the Inquisition might thrust upon her, but there's an edge of something uncomfortable about her as she moves through the Gallows now. She does not like magic being so near when she has no control over it and she does not like the echo of memories that seem to press against her, bringing goosebumps to her skin.

It's the clutter that distracts her from her wanderings, her frown settling on her face. Arms crossed over her chest, she makes her way over, curious and feeling a little on the edge of rude, intruding on something that she surely has no right to be witnessing. She would turn her attention away and go elsewhere, but the sleek hair and jaw of the girl catches her attention as nothing else might; Byerly. If he is here, somehow wrapped in the midst of a horror nightmare...

Her immediate response is to reach out and claw the man's eyes out. She knows the type; she had seen them before. There's a reason she had turned her back on her family, at least for a while, erstwhile and out on her own. She cannot allow herself to simply accept whatever this man is, and she moves forward, immediate. She wants to break the dream - but then Byerly himself appears, so much younger, closer to her age than he must be in present, and her voice shuts off in a soft gasp. She sees the other man, the real one, and she goes to his side, small fingers seeking out his, to hold his palm flat against her own.

He had her in her time of need. She shall have him.

"Can you look at me?" Look at her, she suggests, rather than the drama in front of them - as if, she thinks with a touch of sourness, she might be enough to give him any kind of strength.

HELENA STARTERS - cw child abuse / cult stuff / violence / murder

[strangel]

because i am procrastinating too much to write them all at once

FOR WREN - additional warning for (implied) animal death

[strangel]

Helena sits on one of the external stairwells of the Gallows, hunched down by the wall, watching round the corner as more of the devilwork started to unfold. Bow in hand, arrows at her back. Her fingers twitch. She sees a wispish thing stretch and unfurl like ink dropped into water, another joining it, both of them stretch and reaching until she has to slap a hand over her mouth to stop the horrified gasp she can feel in danger of rasping in.

A man some years past middle-aged is sitting on a chair, watching intently. He is dressed simply, but clean and crisp, respectfully put together. He is clean shaven, face lined with wrinkles that in this moment make him look like a kindly grandfather, and his hair is neat and greying. The space bout him is littered with refuse, garbage, and the child in front of him is thin, wearing clothes that don't fit her and haven't been washed in far too long. Where it sags around her shoulders, raw scars are visible, jagged lines carved into the skin. Her hair is a mass of dirty tangles, pale blonde and catching the light. She might be twelve or so, but it's hard to say.
A puppy is wriggling on the floor, and she smiles delightedly as it gnaws on her fingers.

"What is his name, Tomas?"

(There is a devil taking her face, Helena thinks as she watches, and shakes her head for how that reminds her of terrible things Tomas taught her. Desperately, she looks around. Will anyone see? She can't let anyone see.)

"He has no name, child. He is a test." In his hands, he turns a blade.

Helena, the ghost of her, looks up at him sharply. Sees the knife, recognises, understands and tenses. There is a long pause as she holds the puppy closer. "But— He hasn't done anything. He isn't a sinner."

Tomas' backhand knocks her sideways, one arm still cradling the puppy, the other bracing herself from hitting the ground. He looms over her, now, knife in his hand. The gentleness of moments before is gone, and now his expression is warped with viciousness. "The demons will lie, child. They will say anything to save their own lives. Do you think they cannot take the guise of innocence?"

A furious, strained breath tears at her lungs as she looses an arrow that bursts through the spirit with Tomas' face, disappearing through its chest.

Anna | Welcome to Bloodborne | Gross! Gore, Monsters, Body Horror, Medical Horror, Infanticide, etc

[notched]

Open Monster Fight - One Reborn (Pile one, one thread plz)

[[Overtly: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aflz4VpVxCw]]
A black miasma obscures the moon, taking it over like a blossom of black ink. Anna stands in the courtyard, head tilted back and watches it. Her dark eyes dilate. She stands unmoving as the black ball begins to drip fluid. Greyish green and stinking of afterbirth. The sound of bells ring, clear and silver, from every direction.

The creature drips from the darkness. At first just one rotted but human form, and then the rest of its hulking incomprehensible form. Wet and twisted. Too many human parts, connected where they should not connect, organs out in the open, joints backwards. It flops to the ground like the newborn it is, but then it begins to collect itself; spitting acid bile and dark magic in every direction.

Anna flicks open her whip, an automatic gesture, but she continues to stand there staring at the thing: unmoving.

Open Wildcardy Stuff - 1:1 threads of any number

She can be found anywhere, shivering, pacing, muttering: "Someone is working a terrible ritual. Stop them. Stop them. Stop them."

She can be found sometimes, beating her gloved fists into the unmoving brick of a wall, simply screaming.

---

Samson

Brain Fluid
Greyish amoeba-shaped brain fluid. Wobbles and bounces.

Extracted from a patient whose head expanded until that was all that they were.

In the early days of the Healing Church, the Great Ones were linked to the ocean, and so the cerebral patients would imbibe water, and listen for the howl of the sea. Brain fluid writhed inside the head, the initial makings of internal eyes.

Once, a young girl had an older brother who was determined to become a doctor, and so she wilfully became his patient. In the end, this led to their encounter with the Eldritch Truth, for which they considered themselves blessed.

We fail to realize our own latent potential, until the moment it is lost, and we sense its absence. Ironically, this is the very nature of insight, like the moment one licks one's own blood, only to be startled by its sweetness.

It was a placid conversation in the night, before the Veil began to thin. Nothing more important than the direction the birds had flown the morning before, or how the bread had been that day. Placid, until a strange singing interrupted, a delirious disembodied singing that brought with it an accursed smell of spoiled viscera and blood.

The hair on her arms stands up in recognition of the tune.

Wysteria & Lakshmi

Bastard of Loran
Special material used in a Holy Chalice ritual.

Remains of Loran infant infected by the scourge. A harbinger of curses and symbol of defilement.

The additional rite Curse defiles dungeons in which hunters' HP is greatly eroded, but what better place to seek cursed blood gems but in the midst of defilement?

Anna's face is clean and her hair has been plaited. It is a loose, messy braid but the effort is there. She has removed her gloves. Her charred coat that reeks of blood is on the back of her chair. Unburdened from all her leathers and armors, she's a small woman. No longer quite so dour and frightening now that she is sitting at breakfast with them, picking at food that she isn't really interested in. Ignoring her tea. She has never sat to a breakfast approaching even this loose level of formality. All she can think of is eating bread and jerky with the other hunters, retelling the horrors of the night before with relief to see another day.

What does she want to tell them about the night, however? That she had heard strange whispers and laughing voices that did not belong. That in the corner of her eye there had been beasts but when she had lunged after them, there had been nothing at all?

"This is..." Pinched, tired, harrowed. "Nice."

Ilias

One-Third Umbilical Cord
Every Great One loses its child, and then yearns for a surrogate, and Oedon, the formless Great One, is no different. To think, it was corrupted blood that began this eldritch liaison.

It is an unfortunate place to stumble upon. Once a dark side alley, and now... a damp sewer in the catacombs of a church filled with dark whispers. The whispers are everywhere, like a name being repeated over and over again but indecipherable. The weeping makes it hard to discern.

"It can't be... this is a nightmare..." The weeping woman gasps and laughs.

But there are two women once one comes close enough to see. One slumped in a rotting chair with blood pooled at her feet. The other a hunter obscured all in leather.

And then one more presence.

An amorphous wormlike thing rolls in the wet. It has no eyes, instead its head bears sticky tentacles and wrinkled ridges that make the exact shape of its sucking mouth difficult to determine. Little wings, more like tree-branches but beautiful silver, extend from its back.

It cries and slurps, and every sound it makes is a physical assault to the senses. That thing should not exist.

"It can't be... this is a nightmare..." The weeping woman gasps and laughs, over and over again.

Thor

Mercy for the poor wizened child, mercy.

She had thought, perhaps, that going towards the water might be a reprieve from the madness going on in the Gallows. But of course, there were ugly secrets hidden beneath the waves. It was from the water that the Great Ones sang, the myserious depths of the oceans which incubated all unknowable things.

There is a carcass on the shoreline. White and squid-like, but within the folds there is a beautiful female face, pearlescent and assuredly dead.

Anna knows what is going to happen, and yet somehow she still stands there and watches it. Stands there and watches as the screaming, miscarried orphan of the slaughtered goddess crawls out of her corpse. It drips with placenta and slime.

It begins to scream, and that's when Anna turns on heel and runs, slamming directly into Thor's chest with a terrified shriek.

[thorndergod]

He's not entirely without trepidation at the spirits and demons and visions that are cavorting around the Gallows, but Thor learned a long time ago to hide many things that troubled him. His smile reaches his eyes if not his heart and mind, and his stroll is casual and confident. Until he stops. And stares. The thing moving, crawling out, is worse than a Darkspawn, worse than anything he's ever seen in Thedas, and it's not until the small woman runs into him that he really notices he's just standing there.

"It is not really here?" He'd meant it to be a statement of assurance, but in these times he can't be entirely certain of what's real and what's not. An ache in his hand tells him that he's already holding his hammer, a death-grip that's going to be a problem in a few moments if he doesn't ease up. A breath, and he pushes back some of the unconscious stress and fear. Not all of it, but enough for him to pull his thoughts together. "Or do we fight it?"

Jester || OTA

[the_cleric]

i. the Lavish Chateau

There is only one door, the door through which you have entered. And behind it is a beautifully plush girl's bedroom. The bed is canopied, and the bedding is rich and sumptuous, overflowing with squashy pillows. There is a little writing-desk in the corner, appointed with fine inks and paints and parchments in an assortment of weights and even colors. At the end of the bed, a chest stands open, revealing a cache of finely made but well-loved toys that someone has played with, a lot.

Low bookshelves occupy one corner of the room, bracketing a cozy reading nook, appointed with more squashy pillows and a velvety pouf to sit on. The books on the shelves are very foreign fairy tales and histories and art books and romance novels. And there is a little make-up table, outfitted with costume jewelry and a few real pieces, while the make-up is mostly theatrical, and there are craft supplies strewn in there too: feathers, string, pinking shears, glue. One of the walls has been painted in a fantastic mural: a furry blue dragon flying across the sky with all the freedom of a loose ribbon, with a face that almost looks like a moth's, and a little blue girl with horns clutching to its neck. The windows are huge, floor-to-ceiling affairs, curtained in heavy blue curtains, edged with blue satin ribbons and little tear-drop pearls.

There is only one door, the door you enter by. And there is only one person in the room: a woman, lithe and lovely, clad in a low-cut dressing gown of ivory satin. The pearls at the trim clatter together as she raises one hand to brush aside the curtain at the window. Her skin is red, like a polished ruby, and her dark red hair cascades over her shoulders. A pair of horns curl out from the crown of her head. Otherworldly, wistful, beautiful, she is humming softly to herself--but when she hears a footfall, her eye slips over to greet her guest.

"Hello." Soft, accented, a dulcet tone. She is even more beautiful when she looks at you. Someone has spent a long time on her makeup. The flash of her teeth is very white against her skin. "Have you seen my daughter? I am missing her."



ii. Jester at home.

The curtains are tied back now, silvering the room with moonlight. A fine white substance is piled about halfway up the windows from the outside--but it will be hard to focus there, at first. Jester draws the eye too well. Jester, seven feet tall, still manages to look very small where she is huddled in the center of her bedroom.

A cold wind is blowing, ruffling Jester's hair and flapping at the hood of her cloak. And the corners of the room--if you look close enough--seem to be flaking, curling up at the edges like a dried-up parchment. And it is sand, that has piled up against the windows from the outside. Sand fine enough to stream in the cracks of the windows. A solid base of it has built up over there already, a soft mound like a snowdrift.

Jester is hard at work with her sketchbook. She is putting the finishing touches on a picture of the room around her, every detail meticulously recreated. When she finishes, she turns to the next page, and starts all over again: the bed, first, and then the chest at the foot of the bed. The windows, the curtains, the carpet. The writing-desk. The bookshelf. The work is repetitive enough that Jester might look like one of the spirits herself, locked in performance. But she's too real. She's vibrant, living, even in amid the shadows and colors of her bedroom.

She doesn't say anything, to whoever stumbles in to her room. But after a second, she tears the page out of her sketchbook and holds it out over her shoulder, waiting for it to be taken. Like a postcard of her bedroom, something to remember this moment by.

I

[indissection]

The room is quaint, Sidony thinks, and much nicer than some of the places she has walked today. Compared to the horrors of spirits and nightmares, Jester's room is a welcome reprieve, something soft and tender amidst ghosts and hauntings that are enough to tear your mind and heart apart. Her fingers want to reach out and touch things, to stroke over the books, the nook, the fabrics, but the woman catches her attention more than anything else, a soft noise in the back of her throat.

The woman is beautiful, Sidony thinks, with a mixture of awe and envy.

There's no mistaking who she is once she speaks either; the accent is familiar enough that even without the colours and the height and the horns, alongside previous experience, make it clear. Jester had said that her mother was the 'best mom' and Sidony finds it hard to doubt that when she comes face to face with the woman herself, beautiful and regal and far more than she could have ever imagined. She's not entirely sure what to do with herself.

"Your daughter is Jester?" Sidony pauses, asking before she makes a fool of herself. "A friend of mine."

Julius (either prose or brackets are fine)

[overharrowed]

I. Diplomacy offices (closed to Petrana)

Of course Julius notices them. His training and his background have made as sensitive as any mortal can be to the potential of things sliding across the Veil, the dangers of accepting perception as reality without question. (That said, running into a dead lover who bluntly accuses you of cowardice is still unsettling, even if you hold the intellectual position that it probably isn't real.)

What worries him more is people who don't have his training, and Petrana is first on his mind. She's clever, and she's a mage, but she's also a rifter and he'd rather find her sooner than later. If he's being overprotective, well, no real harm done; he'd as soon have her help in figuring out what's gone wrong.

He doesn't knock; it's an office, and he doesn't feel the need he would with a private bedroom.


II. Hallways of the Gallows (OTA)

Not all of the apparitions are horrifying, at least to Julius. Some are just odd. (He wonders what emotion the flock of brightly colored, ambulatory birds was meant to evoke, and in whom.) Others are harder. He's fairly certain he keeps seeing Fionn out of the corner of his eye, but he is resolutely ignoring him, or rather whatever is choosing to appear as him.

As in previous crises, he wants something to do, more than anything, so he is trying his best to gather information. He's still using a cane, but sitting still seems like the worst possible way forward. If he can help, even just one person, he'd rather try.

[ipseite]

This isn't real.

Of course it isn't—she's not a fool—if anyone is to haunt anyone else, of the two of them only Petrana has yet died. Marius breathes foreign air, far from here, and she is not to be taken in by some transparent mimicry of him, and yet—

it's Davidias, kneeling, it's Marius's smile holding the point of his sword to his throat, and she'll never know what happened afterwards. If he had managed to escape the palace or if this is precisely, precisely what followed; they had not spoken to her of consequence, during her incarceration. Detained at his majesty's pleasure, and nothing more, and he was ever-unforgiving. A miracle, that she had lived so long at his pleasure.

She is knelt before the shadow of a man who very well might have died for her, and the opening door doesn't immediately catch her attention; only it takes Marius's, and Davidias fades, forgotten, kicked aside as the sword comes down to rest its point against the stone floor, Marius leaning to one side in a ludicrous parody of welcoming relaxation.

“The challenger approaches,” ironically.

PETRANA / starters below

[ipseite]

( lmk if you want one ♥ )

for wren.

[ipseite]

The young woman in the doorway of Coupe's office isn't real.

More than that, she isn't familiar; this haunting doesn't belong to any of her own old ghosts. It isn't obvious to whom she might, even less as it becomes clear the spirit itself hasn't entirely committed to any one thing—she grows taller as she approaches, her cheeks rounder, her jaw more defined, her eyes indecisive; one light, one dark. Her hair curls down her back, then smooth, light and darkening. She is, in all of her slow-shifting transient forms, terribly pretty—she wears a jeweled circlet that spills off in broken pieces when she turns her head.

“This is fascinating,” she says, “isn't it? Don't you think?”

GWENAËLLE / starters below

[elegiaque]

( lmk if you want one ♥ )

Darras Rivain || OTA

[staysail]

i. FIRE.

The screaming starts down the hall.

Like someone running with a torch, a light is approaching, casting crazy shadows on the stone wall, and it grows brighter, hotter, intensifying with each section of hallway that it overtakes. And the screaming comes with it, louder, growing louder, an agony, a cacophony. The stench of crisping fat. Burning hair. Leather, cloth, the wet oily smell of camphor. It is something that is coming, some thing and not someone. Dozens of voices, babbling and insane with pain. Help, help and mercy, prayers and curses and incoherent terror.

It ends up being one man, first. His hair is on fire, and his beard, and his eyebrows. Burning from the inside out. His mouth is dark and wet. And another man behind him, choking on his own blood--licked with flames, too, and so is the woman who stumbles up behind him. Her fingers are black and grasping. And then they are everywhere. The ones in better shape run, making ragged the flames that eat at them. The burned stumble. Some crawl. Blood bubbles at their lips, at their throats.

"Please. Mercy, please. We surrendered. By the Maker, we surrendered, we surrendered, we didn't want no trouble, we surrendered--"



ii. Darras vs. the ghosts

The dead man had gold teeth. Has gold teeth. Darras chops at him with his falchion, which he has freed from its scabbard. Worn and brutally functional, it does not cut any glittering path. Nor does it harm the spirit. Instead, the dead man jerks back. Blood froths at his lips when he laughs.

Angry, Darras tries again--and again, when he misses. His blood is up, and his anger eats at him like an animal. He lacks finesse, any training that wasn't hard-won in battle. Feinting, he darts close, and as the dead man pulls clear of the blow again, follows it with a punch.

It connects with nothing. Smoke, oily, black. The dead man is gone. His laughter hangs in the air. And the smell of cooked meat is there, too, like a cook-fire, and Darras shouts out, wordless and frustrated, as he whips around to strike his next blow at whoever is unfortunate enough to have come upon him.


iii. the hunt.

Later, Darras stalks the halls. His anger is caged now, held behind bars until it comes time to release it, to let it free of its chain. He is looking for someone. That is obvious. Every scene he comes across, he observes, first, cold and calculating. If it seems like a waste of his time, if he doesn't see whoever or whatever he is seeking: he leaves.

He's on a mission. With his falchion in his hand, he's on a mission, and he doesn't look like he wants to be interrupted.

He's happy to do the interrupting, if the mood strikes him. Whispers in a corridor, screams in the next room--can't do anything about those but ignore them. But a man running across his path to throw himself out the window, well, that can be swiped at. And Darras does, a broad swipe with his blade.

The spirit seems almost to flicker, a candle's flame caught in a wind. It keeps up its path, undeterred. Darras gives a grim little smile as he watches it go over the sill.

"Can't kill 'em," he observes aloud, "but something about it feels good anyways."

iii

[thorndergod]

He looks at the shorter man, glances at the spirit that hat at least flickered, and looks back at the smile on the man's face. There was little to be found that was satisfying about this mess as the force of dead qunari at Thor's back start to wear him down; it's something of a joy to find someone else has a very straightforward approach. Attack.

Thor's own expression changes from serious to a large grin as he pulls a fancy hammer out of its belt loops.

"It looks like it does. May I join your hunt, my friend?" So what if the man's mostly a stranger? So what if his accent is definitely not Northern? It's not Nevarran, he's not an elf or a qunari, and Thor would like someone to have some fun with. In this, at least, he can call the man friend and see where that goes. "I am Thor, of House Asgard, and this seems a worthy pursuit."

Church | ota

[motherfucking_ghost]

i.
It's not like Church is disconnected from the raw emotion of these ghastly intrusions. Horrible things are still fucking horrible to see and hear. On rare occasion, he even recognizes someone. He's been here long enough to see enough faces come and go. But also rarely does it have any personal impact on him. He's not from here; he has no stake in the things that happened in Kirkwall years and years and eons ago. And when he goes home, it's in the city, tucked away with his girlfriend, not haunted like the poor suckers who actually live in the Gallows. (And yet, plenty of it keeps him up at night.)

So color him surprised when he sees a suit of armor, but nothing from Thedas. Dark, sharp lines, UNSC issued, just standing there with her back to him in the courtyard on his way to...on his way to he's not sure he remembers anymore.

The figure, androgynous, holding a battle rifle in her hands, doesn't turn toward him, but in fact starts walking away. This simple move jolts a sudden panic into him, and he runs after her, despite knowing, despite knowing. "Tex, wait-!"

Naturally, he goes past her, through her, and when he looks, her back is still to him. In fact, no matter what he does, how he tries to move around her, her back is always to him. He's clearly getting more and more anxious about this, sometimes running about her in a wild circle, sometimes allowing her to walk some distance before, once again, trying to catch her.

As if she won't slip through his fingers again (again again again like an echo in his head).

ii.
There's a little girl. She's on the other side of the door. She wants let in. The knob shivers and shakes, while she cries and pleads.

"Hey..." He approaches the door slowly. Is it locked? It shouldn't be locked. "Did someone lock you in here, kiddo?"

She wails a little louder and shouts something about this not being funny, she's gonna tell-

"Okay! Okay, it's okay, I'm gonna let you in." Church, this is how you get hauntings, you goober. "It's gonna be okay."

Naturally, when he opens the door, there's nobody and nothing there. ...But he's propping open the door with a pile of books, just in case. Fucking bite him, he's gonna fling open as many doors and keep them open as he's allowed so there's no more weird door hauntings thank you!

iii.
He sits in the mess, mesmerized. It's hard to tell if he's actively enjoying this haunting or finds it unsettling and weird...so probably both. These figures are much smaller, like fit in the palm of your hand kind of small, like an angel or devil floating over you shoulder small, in an array of colors. Purple-pink trying to skateboard, purple-black being standoffish, yellow and cyan always together and holding hands, green standing prim and proper. They're all wearing that same strange futuristic armor, almost like a golem, like armor come to life. Two are without armor, look like people with nondescript faces--a light blue laughing in a stilted and computerized manner, and one pacing about with his hands behind his back perpetually on fire. It's fine. He doesn't seem to mind the fire. They're all doing something or chittering about this or that. There are other voices floating around the table, coming from others, but their murmurs are more indistinct. Pieces snatched if one pays attention--which Church clearly is not.

Little Theta lands a ollie, and Church can't help but laugh. "Wow, good job, little buddy!"

They're all dead. He knows. But he never got a chance to know them before, before the twisted corruption took hold.

So eventually the illusion has to end, and the corruption has to take hold. At some point, when he least seems to expect it... When they stop, in unison, somehow eerie and blank despite unable to tell expressions, and look at him, really look at him, and each little voice says Alpha, says we love you, says we missed you, sing-song and distant and not right, he yelps, tumbles out of his seat with a clatter and scrambles back. The one on fire leads the pack, reaching out to Church. Alpha, they say. Join us, they plead.

His mouth hangs open, but for once, he's speechless--

III

[zombra]

"Dude, what the hell are those things?" Tessa exclaims from nearby, drawn by the sound of someone falling from their chair. She hasn't yet witnessed mini sized spirits and the urge to punt them away is pretty high. She just wants to be able to kick a spirit's ass somehow.

Kain | OTA

[in_death_sacrifice]

I. Courtyard

It starts with a simple glimpse first thing in the morning in the dining hall. Kain does a double-take, looking momentarily confused. He could have sworn he'd just seen an old mentor who'd been recently killed in the battle. But, no, it's surely just grief playing tricks on him.

Unfortunately, it keeps happening for the rest of the day, as he goes around the Gallows doing his normal daily routine. He's not doing much in the way of heavy training yet, forced to still pace himself, but he does go out for regular walks, even in the brisk, cold air. Except this time, every person that passes him on his walk is... well, dead. One by one they walk past, Orlesian friends recently killed in the battle, others long lost in the past, Wardens who met their Calling and warriors who had fallen. He can't believe his eyes, and he's too shaken to really try and talk to them initially. It's really breaking him down seeing these people, and as the lump rises in his throat, he prepares to turn around and go back-

"Father?"

It can't be, but it is. Kain's dead father approaches him with a stern, disappointed expression on his face. Kain sinks to the ground, his legs no longer quite holding him up.

II. Tower Rooftop

To clear his mind, the best idea is to get outside, but more than that, to go somewhere high with a view. So Kain heads up on the uppermost roof of the tallest tower, staring off in to the distance as a chill wind whips in his face. He probably shouldn't stay here long, but... it's worth it, for a little while, anyway.

The next visions hit then, and they're utterly terrifying. Bodies suddenly cover the whole rooftop, and Kain gasps in shock as he recognizes them as his friends... friends who are most definitely living at the moment. The bodies vanish, replaced by what appears to be Kain himself, bowing down at the feet of a powerful, darkly dressed mage. The vision-Kain moves as if jerked about on puppet strings, as he turns and begins fighting, striking down none other than the friends he'd just seen before. They fall to his blade screaming and pleading for their lives.

"No... No, stop this, go away!"

But they keep coming, and it keeps happening, over and over.

III. Tower Hallway Near Rooms

A hallway of residences appears to be entirely covered quite suddenly by red lyrium, pulsing eerily with its red glow. Kain opens his door to leave, but stops in his tracks, his face gone pale with horror. He turns, but finds the same thing in his room. To make matters worse, people who he knows appear to be wandering down the hall toward him, all of them already infected.

Kain screams and starts running down the hall.

III.

[circleprodigy]

It's been one very long, very trying day. Inessa, Garahel at her side, trudges inside, not exceptionally hopeful that the horrible visions will cease any time soon. The Veil is still thin as ever, but if nothing else, perhaps she can keep the trauma contained to her room.

Such is her thought process when the screaming snaps her back to the present. Following Garahel as the alarmed mabari dashes ahead and barks, she stops short upon seeing a certain figure rushing toward them. "Kain!"

Garahel bolts forward, to put himself between the two and the red lyrium, growing low.

lakshmi | ota

[shri]

I. JAI BHAVANI ( CORRIDORS / LAKSHMI'S QUARTERS )
For Lakshmi it does not start boldly, nor loudly. Just with a knock on the door. That the first few times, there is nothing to accompany it, when she opens it, peering out into the corridor.

But through the first night, depending on if you're coming to call or were stopping by for dinner ( something she is always easy to invite people too ), the knocking becomes more insistent, louder, and begins to accompanied with voices until the last time, when she flings open the door in now complete frustration, a woman stands there. Ethereally beautiful, her hair black, the red clothes of a bride, but her skin, is pallid white, worn. When her hands lift, they are red, not with the intricate designs that Lakshmi at times favours.

Her hands are burned raw, stripped back, blood dripping from them. But it is not those that she looks at. Lakshmi stays fixed upon her face, as her hand lifts, the blood splattered ink think onto the ground, splashing over her clothes. It becomes apparent she does not walk, her long skirts floating and trailing over the ground as she reaches for Lakshmi.

She grasps Lakshmi's face in one wounded hand, and fingers lacing against her temple, her thumb rising up and marks her on the brow in a smear of blood that blurs her bindi. Holding her there, and at once, opens her mouth, and with it comes screaming. Loud, ravenous, pained, empty, echoing screaming. One voice over another over another that spills from her mouth.

Then she disappears as suddenly as she came, and Lakshmi stumbles, the bloody stroke on her brow as she catches onto the door frame.

II. HAR HAR MAHADEV ( ANYWHERE )
If going to the fade taught her but one thing, it was that such shapes were not to be trusted. Like Asura's playing tricks, they would twist into shapes of things gone, and in terrible scale, regardless of whether those things should stay dead or not. She is resolute, one hardened figure against the cut of such murky things.

So she is resolute in ignoring them, for as long and as much as she can.

Whether it is as possible to ignore as she liked for others, remained to be seen.

a. At moment's she is alone, as she swings a sword in the training grounds, and then the ground flickers around her. Men in red coats, are at her feet, writhing, twisting, in pain with injuries that have wrenched their limbs from their bodies, and the invisible training partner of her pattern dances is no longer sight unseen, but a creature, far beyond her height.

It is a Lycan, huge, bearing down on her, and she - can't help it when the scream bursts out of her lungs in rage and fear and determination. Driving forward with all her force before her weapon swings wide - for in the end, they are shadows and no more.

She slices through, stumbling, falling forwards, off balance and scrambling to get her footing. Panting hard, sweat on her brow and a shout in her lungs.

But the beast is gone again.

b. The meeting might be important, the meeting may just be a pause in the corridors around the Gallows. Either way, Lakshmi, with her stiff faced, is steadfast in how she ignores the ghosts behind her. They shift, faces, gender, race, a mix of people that move from first just a presence in the corners - except the one thing that cannot be mistaken. They are dead, every one of them. Their faces sunken with the pallor of a rotten body, and the longer she ignores them, the more they become so.

Then they begin to murmur. Tugging at her clothes, her companions clothes. But she doesn't respond, even now. Instead, eyes up to who she's talking to - "I prefer to do my walk of low town in the morning, but if you'd like to join me - ?"

But they are not to be ignored, their presence builds, dead, and dying, they begin to twist, clawing at their faces, and pawing at her. Teeth gnashing against each other, the whites of their eyes showing as a look of fear, pain, and misery and rage twist on their face.

c. At times, when she walks from one place to another on the errands she refuses to stop in just because the dead do not know how to stead, she does not walk alone, the walls around her ripple. To a worn white stone, pitted black with age. Her steps long, purposeful, and behind her trails - a full retinue of guards. They are dressed in pure white, with red wrapped turbans, with rifles strapped to their back. Either side of Lakshmi in front of her are two female warriors.

If Lakshmi is seeing them, she is still resolute in ignoring them. But impossible to think she doesn't for long. The pain twists on her face as the ghostly guards turn to look at her with not hatred, fear, but trust, they look to her, and they love her. Their happiness as to commands that Lakshmi doesn't say. "Ji, Rani sa. Bai Saheba, we are always yours."

III. RAJAJI ( LAKSHMI'S OFFICE )
There has to be a point, there always has to be a point, when some how this is all too much.

She can ignore the blood, she can always ignore the blood. She has done it so well for so long, it would be easy to think that she feels nothing for it. But some things are not so easy to chase away.

That she cannot help but stop, stay and not move. Sitting on the floor of the doorframe, not daring to enter the room that is no longer that of here. But of Lakshmi's home, the otherwise simple room transformed to something that was not to be found elsewhere in the Gallows. Carved pillars like a peacock's fanned tail, oil lamps with many wicks burning that perfume the air, carpets that were red and gold in intricate patterns. She dares not go in further. Back pressed hard into the wood, sitting straight, stiff, shoulders locked, so without movement, it might be she becomes the statue she has been to all else that passed.

But she weeps. Silent, without word or presence otherwise. Not shaking, shuddering, but wet tracks on her face. A steady drip. Her hand bracing across her body on the frame to hold herself there, like she might press forward and shatter this.

There can be no mistaking why. In front of her, in the middle of the room, is a boy, a man, and a baby. The boy is no more than five or six, he is holding a book, flicking through the pages that are lettered elegantly but he has no interest in them, he looks at the beautiful illustrations where he lays on his stomach, legs kicked up in the air. The book propped in front of him. "Raja-ji?" A child's softness as he turns his face, looking at her briefly, brown eyes bright, before he turns to look at his father. "Rani-ji, says I can do all I want if I work hard for it. Does that mean I can be like Lord Rama?"

The man - and there is no mistaking it. He is a King. But he is not tasteless. Elegantly refined, he dresses to his station with respect to it. The baby is rocked in his arms, could not be more than four months. A little tuft of black hair that crested his brow, thumb firmly jammed into his mouth, eyes contently closed as he was rocked against his father's shoulder. "You may become all your dedicated allows, Anand Rao."

IV. CLOSED TO GWEN
She doesn't look whose in the room when she yanks open the door in the mostly empty tower. Just that she knows she must put something between her, and the woman that chases her. Slamming the door heavily as she shoves it closed. Locking it with a slam of the bolt and leaning her head into it as she takes lungfuls of breath - her skin prickling. Some over pronounced palatable tension, that damn her for giving them the blackwater that she can't take a mouthful that would cool her limbs.

But the hard grain wood offers at least stability and a block for a while. That lets her slowly press up, away from the door, to sway on her feet at the exhaustion gets the better of her, gaze fixed on the door in a wariness that weighs in each dragging movement. Fingers curling, hard knuckles under skin, then loosening again as she finally - hears - something else.

Unsure, she turns, worrying, bitter, for a moment at what she expects to find.

It certainly isn't Gwen.

Her mouth opens sharp, and - "For pity's sake."

She certainly wasn't wanting to see him again.

I

[villieldr]

Granted not so many evenings have passed since she returned to the Gallows, but at least a portion of each of them have been spent in Lakshmi's company. After a long day returned to the forge where the intensity of the work on her still-recovering body left her utterly exhausted, she managed only to arrive pull off her boots before falling into a heavy, heavy sleep. At least she could make sure to manage better than that.

The first knock doesn't puzzle her much. A prank, no doubt, on a diplomat, a rifter, a woman with a temper - any could make for appealing target. As they persist she becomes more bemused, going to answer the door herself and moving down the hall to see if she could catch sight of someone disappearing. There were some with great gifts of speed and stealth, and it would be no great surprise... but she sees nothing, and returns to kiss Lakshmi's cheek and go back to their meal.

The next knock was as exasperating, and she's shaking her head and scooping sauce up with the flat bread, not expecting there to be anything. When she sees it, she pushes back so hard and fast that the chair falls backwards, lungeing to the doorway to snatch for the spectre's wrist, and pull it away from Lakshmi. The Avvar respect spirits, work with them, but this cannot be anything holy in the eyes of Korth.

hanzo shimada | ota

[eruit]

I. HANZO'S QUARTERS ( CW: MURDER, BLOOD, GORE )

A. Anyone who has been to Tevinter and seen the rooms of anyone with power and influence would recognise the archaeological design of the room Hanzo's living space has been shaped into. What is surprising about it is how sparse it seems in comparison to all the other luxuries across Tevinter; there is a bed, a dresser, a staff resting against the wooden frame, a shelf of many, many books and a writing desk with a handsome set of ink pens, inkwells and parchments. It seems a very rich room, even with how little there is inside it, and for a long time it seems completely empty.

Inspection of the books betrays that whoever lives in this room is most certainly a mage - not a surprise to anyone who knows much about the upper classes of Tevinter, but the nature of the books are very specific. They all detail spirit magic, the practical uses and application of it as well as others that discuss binding spirits to items, how to summon a spirit to your side to use it to aid you and what might happen as a result. There are the usual spellbooks and magical guides for students, too, and this mirrors what is on the writing desk; notes upon notes on the best use of spirit magic, how to summon a spirit to be your partner, what strength you might assume to gain from it.

The quiet in the room is almost haunting, echoing for minute after minute until someone bursts in.

Completely covered in blood, going from his arms and higher, staining the bared left arm and the clothes he's wearing - formal Magister robes - Hanzo slips into the room, breathing heavily. Flecks of blood stain his face and it seems as though he has his own injuries, that some of the blood might well be his own; there's a slash over his chest, a cut along his jaw, some limpness in the fingers of one hand that suggests torn or broken limbs. He looks a complete mess, eyes wild and dangerous, a feral animal - but what is more surprising is what comes in behind him.

Two dragons slip into the room, curling around him and making sharp, dangerous noises, like growling lions. One of them moves and seems to attempt to tear at Hanzo's flesh as the other tries to stop it; the two of them are in discord and Hanzo does nothing to stop it, his eyes wide, panicked, unsure, lifting a shaking hand to look at the blood and gore covering his fingers, knowing what it is. He shakes, taking long, hard breaths before he moves forward, grabbing a bag and trying to stuff things into it as the dragons fight around him.

B. The longer you stay, the worse the scene gets. The panicked image of Hanzo, far younger than the man the Inquisition knows now, changes and twists. The room seems to fade away and shift, transforming itself into the outside of an estate, to a grand garden - there are small pools of fish, bridges leading over them, and a training area that takes over most of the space. It might take a few blinks for things to come into view, but as soon as it does it's clear this is more like a scene out of a horror story.

A body lies in the middle of the training area - strangely coloured hair, with features that look very similar to Hanzo, eyes open and staring up at nothing. It looks as if something has completely ripped it to pieces. The chest is shredded and open, organs not looking as if there is any life in them, and the man's legs look as though they might have been completely torn off. It's as if some kind of monster had appeared in the midst of the estate and ripped the man into pieces, devouring him and leaving the remains to rot. The smell of burning floods the room; anyone who knows magic will likely recognise the smell of overwhelming spiritual power, the enough to spring a kind of nausea to most.

To one side, a body kneels, a staff in his hand, a hand over his mouth. A voice appears behind, moving closer, forward and forward, a tall body dressed in fine Tevinter robes, reaching down to place a hand on Hanzo's shoulder, ignoring the gore and the blood despite the wrinkle of his nose and the uncomfortable expression on his face. He speaks, and it seems to echo around the room, booming as loud as thunder, snapping at the heels of Hanzo's despair;

"He was a disgrace. You have done the right thing. You have done your duty."

When Hanzo looks up, he looks broken.

II. THE GALLOWS ( ANYWHERE )

Hanzo avoids his room as much as he can once he realises what is being played there, forcing himself to go out into the midst of the Gallows and see what else is happening. He knows spirits; he is their friend, as much as he might call himself that with what had happened in his past, and Kenji and Tomo curl around him as he accepts his place. He has his hair tied back, face set forward, expression tight - but he doesn't realise until it's too late just how vivid his dragons are.

Instead of being a faint, flickering glow in Storm Bow they're bright, vibrant, a neon blue that settle on his shoulders. A flare of panic takes him over, but he does nothing about it, forcing himself to move to a quiet place and duck behind a wall, lifting his hands to reach out and touch them. They're normally only this bright when they're in battle, when he has summoned them to take down some other fool, and his eyes are wide and almost eerily soft as he takes the two of them in - one smaller than the other, but both lifting their hands to curl around him, to press against his body, tender and fond. It's obvious that these creatures love Hanzo, despite his shock and awe.

Anyone approaching, however, has a pair of dragons staring at them with wide eyes and Hanzo drawing his bow, aiming an arrow at their head.

III. ( WILDCARD )

( Find Hanzo somewhere else or hmu for something personal! )