Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faderifting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2019-01-10 10:49 pm
faderifting) wrote in faderift2019-01-10 10:49 pm
Entry tags:
- ! mod plot,
- ! open,
- alexandrie d'asgard,
- bastien,
- benedict quintus artemaeus,
- byerly rutyer,
- cosima niehaus,
- darras rivain,
- gwenaëlle baudin,
- isaac,
- john silver,
- julius,
- kostos averesch,
- loki,
- teren von skraedder,
- wysteria de foncé,
- yseult,
- { anders },
- { cade harimann },
- { clarke griffin },
- { finel },
- { fingon },
- { hanzo shimada },
- { helena },
- { herian amsel },
- { ilias fabria },
- { inessa serra },
- { leander },
- { myrobalan shivana },
- { nari dahlasanor },
- { sidony veranas },
- { silas caron },
- { six },
- { solas },
- { sorrelean ashara },
- { thor }
OPEN: Kirkwail
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.
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.
FIVE ALARM FUCK THIS
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
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.
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Taking the dog's distraction as an opportunity, Cade glances at Inessa with a look of silent horror and dashes out of the library.
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Something scuttles by in the darkness when he reaches the bottom, and he stumbles artlessly to catch himself against a wall. Only then does he notice Inessa, looking at her with haunted eyes, perhaps not even fully convinced of her reality.
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"I'm real, I promise. If it's all too much, I understand. But you won't be alone."
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What emerges in front of them is unthinkably disgusting: a misshapen head, neither human nor animal, jaw agape and dragging a hideous tongue as long as the four arms that propel it.
Throwing a hand over his mouth and squeezing his eyes closed, Cade looks like he's about to retch.
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"It's not real, it's not real...." It's as much muttered to herself as to Cade, before she clears her throat and reaches for his free hand. "If it helps, close your eyes. You don't need to see it. I'll guide us out." One of them has to see where they're going and until Garahel catches up to them, she'll shoulder that burden. These images aren't personal for her, not yet.
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"I--" he stammers, stepping back, "--can't," and takes off out the door, at a dead run. Whatever happens, he has to make sure she doesn't follow. People die at times like this.
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She raises a hand when Garahel comes barreling up, to prevent him from chasing after Cade and making matters worse. "No, not like that. We'll keep a lower-profile."
ii!
He resists it. More helpful—probably?—is ducking out of the door and into the icy wind to go after him.
"Hey," he says, folding his arms to keep his ungloved hands warm. Closer up, he recognizes him, if only by reputation. He's pretty sure the fellow used to outrank him. So when he crouches down a few feet away, he adds, "Ser. They're only spirits. No use freezing over them."
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Between them, a mage lurches into sight, bleeding mortally from a stomach wound. She grits her teeth, and as her hand forms into a claw, blood draws in a stream to form in a glowing miasma over her hand.
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"It might've been here before," he says, "but it isn't anymore."
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