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

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil pulls him up, and then releases his hand. Things are not so desperate as for him to have to lead the Dalish out; he supposes his retreating back will be enough, or the shock of his hair. This is not the Fade, though the spirits pulled through are treating it as such.

“Thranduil,” he says. “The Provost.”

One of the division heads here—this elf isn’t one of his, he’s not so sloppy and love-drunk as to be neglecting his duties that poorly. Just enough so he’s not sure who, exactly, Finel is the responsibility of.

He pays no mind to the spirit playing out death, like a child throwing a tantrum. This is easily done by someone with no connection to it.

"What is your name? What is your clan?"

[malavhenan]

Finel wavers a moment, leans back against the wall for stability until he can feel enough strength return to his legs without it. The spirit gives another piercing shriek after Thranduil answers with his name, and he visibly pales, turning away a moment to prevent himself from looking again. It would have been terrible enough just to have heard that voice, but it shatters his heart to have to listen to it screaming in pain.

"Forgive me-" he manages weakly, trying hard just to concentrate on a few breaths, wishing he could ignore the spirit as easily as the other man.

Finally after a few moments he tries to rub the ache in his eyes away, to regain at least a little composure for a conversation.

"My name is Finel, of clan Ravennan in the Free Marches."

[rowancrowned]

“Clan Ravennan,” he says, and there’s a moment as he waits until Finel is in step with him. “I did not attend Arlathvhen; perhaps we might have met sooner.”

Mild, easy talk, conversational throughout what emotions might cross Finel’s face or heart—none of the spirits who might have been pulled in his wake from his office are there, and he does not want to contaminate the little nest of Greenwood in his office (Gwenaelle nestled safely within) with Finel’s thoughts, as unintentionally sour as they are.

“You are a mage?” He’s getting better at guessing, the posture, the marks stave training leaves on a body over bladed weapons.

[malavhenan]

The spirit sulks at being ignored, floating along behind like a sullen child. It comes close again every now and then, as though to tug on Finel's sleeve to remind him of its presence, whispering things in his ear.

He glances back over at the shadow of the hunter, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"We might not have met even so if you had. I...was unwell for much of Arlathvhen, and do not remember the events very clearly."

Finel looks back to Thranduil curiously, expression pulled a little from exhaustion at the edges.

"That's right," he confirms softly, trying to take the man in a little more. There's something so very different about him that is unlike all other elves he's met in Thedas that he can't quite put his finger on. There is a strong sense of regal poise in him, something Finel realizes he's never really seen before in any of his other kin.

"And you?"