CROSSING THE CROSSROADS

[writteninblood]

WHO: Marcoulf, Solas, Sorrel, Steve Rogers
WHAT: Crossing the Crossroads
WHEN: Solace 10-15
WHERE: The Crossroads, and the Temple of Mythal
NOTES:

I. The Crossroads

It's a dim, oppressive place, the world on the other side of the looking glass. There's something of the Fade here, in the silence of it, and the little noises too far to understand, or too close-by the dismiss. It's creepy, almost deliberately creepy, like an unfamiliar house on a dark night, or like a familiar one with an uninvited guest. There's even a road! A cobbled path choked here and there with creeping vines that wind through the cracks and across the by-ways.

Never when you're looking, but often, they snatch at the feet of anyone who isn’t either a mage or an elf. Don't trip! If you trip, they'll wind around you, and you'll need to be cut free. The crossroads doesn't like visitors.

Unless you're an elf, of course. The way to the indicated mirror is complex, but not particularly hazardous. It's a long walk, in that strange half-verdant twlight, and the for anyone not born with pointed ears walks that twilight, the each step seems to take very slightly longer than the last. It's a good thing you have such good stamina, isn't it? And it's such a long, heavy walk, until the silence is interrupted by a curious honking sound.

And a spider the size of a dog, with jaws like a dragon, and too many eyes, and a wobbly, bright-eyed manner about it; it's a baby. It's obviously a baby. You'd probably better find a way to keep this curious baby Varteral off your packs and your backs, before mommy comes lookng for her darling little one.

Or else when mommy shows up, you'll all have more to concern yourself with than wild-mirror-hunts or Venatori encampments.



II. Venatori Encounter

The Venatori themselves are a sorry sight. They're huddled around the base of the great mirror like beetles around a lamp, just as hunch-backed and simpering. The camp, if it can be called that, is a mere handful of men, all three of them sallow-faced and disconsolate from the weary days in the Crossroads. If the humans among the Riftwatch team think they're tired, this is a vision of what it would look like to sleep, to eat, to attempt to live in this oppressive atmosphere.

They sit, huddled around a pitifully small campfire, discussing in low Tevene the options for moving forward. Even their tents seem to droop, poorly supported in the so-called soil of the crossroads grounds.

And while they're staring inward, or at the stubbornly closed mirror that is their target, they're nothing like wary, or watchful. Only one has a staff close at hand, the others appear totally unarmed. Presently, one stands, wavers slightly on half-numb legs, and moves to separate himself from the group.

Showtime.



III. The Temple

There is no password among the Venatori's effects, once their tiny camp is looted and turned over, but a few educated guesses from the mages of the group are enough to make what several, perhaps many, otherwise well-educated Tevinters have accomplished seem like a joke. It didn't take half an hour for the Riftwatch team to breach a barrier it had taken the enemy a week to fail at crossing.

The mirror glows, rippling with life and light, with power.

The room beyond it is larger, perhaps, than any they have seen in Thedas. It's roof is not whole, nor its floors, both fallen prey to the inevitability of entropy, but the room itself is more than grand. Bright stone, calm pools, shafts of sunlight and vaulted domes, every vision of the meaning of the word Temple written in architecture as clearly as if it were words. Whoever built this place knew what it was to feel small at the feel of the eternal, and they had made their own eternity out of evoking that feeling in others.

"Holy Mother Mythal," Sorrel swears quietly, hushed in the natural silence of it all, "What is this?"

Whatever it is that lies beyond the coveted Eluvian, they only have a few seconds more before they're noticed, and sent a volley of arrows for their trouble. Watch out!

Comments

iii

[esquive]

Marcoulf isn't the last one through the mirror, but he does linger just there as if tethered to it in the place that unfolds from the other side. It's-- not quiet. It feels like the very air here has a texture, humming in some language he doesn't know at some volume he can't hear but can feel resting uneasily against the surface of his skin.

The dappled, shifting light of the temple dazzles. It's not unlike the Fade, he thinks, and thinks that's an insane series of words to occur to anyone at all, much less--

Well, it doesn't matter. The first arrow strikes stone near their feet, skidding away into obscurity like a stone skipped on water.

[dirth]

Solas knows the Crossroads; he knows this place like he knows the beat of his own heart and he feels as though he is flying, back home again, wrapped up and draped in a world he had long left behind. He can see the echoes of Arlathan prickling at his senses, something prickling at his eyes as he tries to keep himself set and stern, to not give in to the urge to break into a thousand and one pieces. This is home, but it isn't home at all.

He walks immediately, unconcerned, but stops, eyes widening, as the arrows come - and with a wave of his hand and a draw of his staff he has a barrier around himself and his fellows.

"Be careful!"

[murrika]

Steve's already reaching for Sorrel, the closest one to him, when the first arrow flies, tugging him back by his shoulder and stepping in front of him with his shield raised up. Solas, it seems, has a bigger shield, and after seeing the shimmer of magic past the edge of the vibranium, Steve carefully lowers his, watching the arrows bounce off the rippling magic barrier in the air.

"I'm thinking that means they're not open for tours right now, guys." He's commenting, squinting past the barrier and the arrows to look for a source.

"Anyone see who's firing?"

[writteninblood]

"There!" Sorrel shouts, pointing past his sudden shield of flesh and magic. The barrage is constant, an urgent threat with no room for misunderstanding; leave, or we kill you.

And where was he pointing? There! Elves, in strange kit, the delicate branches of vallaslin inked across their cheeks. Sorrel makes a strangled, uncertain noise of surprise. They're... Dalish?

"Mythal enaste," He swears, under his breath. This clan wasn't interested in talking; perhaps he could come back later, with a group that didn't have any shems in it, "Back up, back into the mirror!"

[esquive]

There's a strange pop, pop of changing air pressure, an abrupt hollow thwack as the arrows ping off the edge of the barrier. Marcoulf is ducking anyway - unable to fully mitigate the self-preservation instinct to not get shot in the face -, and takes the direction of not being here as readily as any sensible person ought to. He falls back promptly, all to happy to abandon the temple and return to the drained world of the Crossroads beyond the eluvian.

They'll need to ready some defense on the other side in case they're followed through it.

[dirth]

Solas knows what they are, immediately and intensely, and he breathes out a sharp noise as he tilts his head to look at them. His eyes are wide and intense and he hesitates, just for a moment, before he slams his staff into the ground. His job now is to protect the people around him and he does not hesitate - even as distracted as he is by the people in front of him.

He knows them. He knows them and his heart is aching and breaking and repairing itself all at once.

"I will keep the barrier up!" He calls back to the others. Perhaps if he stands, perhaps if they recognise him - perhaps they'll pause, know, ask questions - "Move!"