MOD EVENT ↠ CREEPY CRAWLERS

[faderifting]

WHO: Everybody
WHAT: Weird shit comes to Kirkwall Riftwatch earns its keep
WHEN: August 20-22
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: OOC post! Random creature generator! CW: creepy crawly animals and the combating thereof.

I. KIRKWALL

The first Fade-touched creatures are small—they must be—because the first signs that something has gone wrong aren't swarms of oversized pests stomping through the streets, but a half-day of unexplained fires in Lowtown and Darktown, splotches of mysterious ice on the walls despite the heat, and the sudden simultaneous electrocution deaths of two dock workers standing knee-deep in water.

Rumors that mages must be to blame don't have an opportunity to get louder than whispers, fortunately, before the first pack of double-sized, fire spitting nugs is startled out of hiding and runs through the city, squeaking wildly and singeing walls.

By nightfall, it's become an invasion: rats, nugs, bats, deepstalkers, some oversized, some aggressive, all exhibiting unusual abilities. The City Guard—already overworked due to the traditional rash of crimes that often accompanies a heatwave combined with the caffeine-related unrest—does its best, but by morning the pests have reached Hightown and begun scorching curtains and leaving trails of poison slime through gardens and the Provisional Viscount sends a formal request for aid to the Gallows. It has a seal and everything.

II. DARKER THAN DARKTOWN

The old mines that Kirkwall was built around and on top of are only heavily populated near the surface. Beneath Darktown's shanties and encampments, the mining shafts narrow into passages too cramped to easily live in, twisting away from any natural sources of light and down into the black rock until not even dwarven and elven eyes can discern anything in the dark. At first, it seems cooler underground, as one would expect. But the air stagnates and the humidity rises and at times it seems that the deeper one gets, the hotter it is.

The tunnels aren't entirely deserted. Signs of activity litter the paths, along with skeletons—some animal, but also some human, dwarven, or elven—and detritus, discarded rags and broken pottery, and a whole collection of dolls made of bundled twigs. The smugglers and reclusive Darktown denizens who travel this deep are difficult to come across in person, and prone to attacking first if cornered by anyone too clean and official-looking, but now and then they can be seen disappearing around corners or heard whispering from side passages.

Navigating the mining shafts is fairly straightforward, most of the time. Widening passages and upward inclines are the way out; narrowing passages and downward inclines are the way in. If fire and glow stones fail, sending crystals cast a faint light that's enough to keep anyone from being completely blind in the depths. But there are still passages that turn back on themselves, downward tunnels boarded over with bridges that have begun to rot, tunnels half-flooded with Maker-knows-what, steep drops—and the occasional stampede of Fade-touched creatures, more and more frequent closer to the rift.

Close enough, the jet-black stone walls begin to reflect green light, and then the tunnels open up into a wide open space full of damp, briney cool air. And demons.

III. THE RIFT

It's just a rift: the usual split of churning green, so bright in the dark that it's nearly blinding, hanging over standing water in the center of a wide-open chamber, patrolled by the usual demons.

But once they're dispensed with, and the rift closed, the chamber is something more unusual. The standing water is salty—coming in from the sea, at least in part, never deeper than the knees (or waist, maybe, on a dwarf) but populated with a few small fish, and the stone around it is covered with deep mushroom, ghoul's beard, and a few sprigs of rare felandaris. Beneath the overgrowth, there are signs of architecture, dwarven columns and crumbling statues of dragons in the Tevinter style.

Beneath the water, the floor is carved with a design not unlike a glyph, and also not unlike the pattern of Kirkwall's streets. The Veil is so thin that a sneeze could have torn it open.

Comments

wysteria, otaish;

[heirring]

for aziraphale;

Grotesque, slimy, stinking of decomposition and the distinct impression of matted hair and grime beneath all the shadow. No, this is not a description if the latest geyser of fade touched spider to come boiling up out of a Hightown drainpipe, but rather the words that first occur to Wysteria as they make their tentative way down into the fetid, humidity slick abyss of Darktown. She is not, for the record, clinging to the man beside her. For one, he doesn't give the impression of a particularly well suited candidate for the job of staunch protector, and for two--

Well, they've rather an interesting job to hand and the novelty of it is a happy diversion from the environment. Even now, paused at a mucky Darktown crossroads to take advantage of the grudging relief from the merciless chokedamp provided by one of a very intermittent series of steel braziers pouring equal amounts of smoke and light, Wysteria is turning the map about in her hands. She holds it first this way, then that, doing her best to catch the light.

"Well, if you ask me that squiggly bit looks rather like the a hand pointing left. Wouldn't you agree?"

Here, she tips the map to Aziraphale. Here, a hand looms out through the smoke, snatches the roughly folded parchment from her, and then is sucked back to the sound of running footsteps.

For a split second, Wysteria stares at her empty hands. "Were we just-- Stop! Thief!"

Which inspires roughly as much action from the denizens of Darktown as one might imagine.

the rift, aftermath - ota

She has her skirts tucked comically up, its ends jammed unceremoniously into the lacing of her bodies. It had allow Wysteria to slosh through the knee deep water without worrying about more than her shoes and stockings, but now it cuts a somewhat hilarious figure where she stands quite high up on the lichen encrusted bases of one of the crumbling statues.

Given the evidence of the a small booklet and pen in hand and with the way she keeps squinting at the floor from her elevated vantage point, she must be doing her best to record the state of the glyph carved there.

[aziraphlail]

It's rather dingy down here. Grimy, dark, rather reminiscent of hell, or the parts of hell he'd seen. This time, though, he has company.

...and now no map or guide.

"Excuse you!" Aziraphale yells after the fleeing thief. "We are attempting to help you!" The ingratitude of the thief, really. There may be a rift down here! With the weird, twisted sort of demons! He takes a breath and straightens his vest, looking back at his company. There are others looking at him and Wysteria, and none of them look especially friendly. This feels even more reminiscent of hell, and there's not even a chance of being smug at someone.

"Do we need to pursue that fellow? Or can you remember what was on the right-hand side of the hand-shape thing? I can recall some of the left-hand side." He doesn't want to chase the form into the darkness. Yes, he's got a sword. But it's not like he's got any real practice with it.

hi.

[saam]

Well. Time to get in her way, then.

There's a weird human with weird clothes just sitting there. Parts of the city are literally on fire. Eshal needs... she needs a second before she can deal with that shit. Better focus on the human.

She's tall enough that, even from the other human's vantage, Eshal can stand in front of her (on the glyph) and be heard. Her voice is loud and deep.

"The hell're you doing?"

after

[notched]

She does not currently have a torch in hand, although they were often a central means of defense to Hunters. All beasts feared fire, a good torch could catch their oil-coated flesh in the dank sewers, or could be used to heard them into an unfavorable position-- cowering back and back-- where they could more easily be dispatched of.

What Anna does have is the mutated Blacksky Eye in her pocket. She takes it out and blows on it gently. It glows a faint, arcane blue. She holds it up to give Wysteria more light.

Anders; otaish

[justice_is_blond]

For Barrow

He's gotten fairly decent at patching up holes in the walls of the Clinic, unfortunately. The state of the place means that things wear down, and means that he's found here wearing a sleeveless tunic over pants instead of a robe about once a month, trying to keep the worst of everything out. Apparently this time it hadn't even been the usual wear-and-tear, though. A pack of something fire-breathing had been through the area and damaged a few buildings. There's a party out hunting them, and he's seeing to this.

Work here at least tends to go a little more smoothly than elsewhere - the people know him and know him for help, which means the yelling and shouting of gang activity doesn't take place right here.

Which also means that a bit of quiet, elsewhere extremely rare in Darktown, isn't too uncommon here and doesn't put him on guard. In fact, he's foolishly completely oblivious to danger until there's a growl behind him. Thankfully then instinct kicks in and he has a barrier up before he's hit, but he's absolutely knocked on his ass and facing three clearly hungry menaces.

His crystal is inside the Clinic. His staff is inside the Clinic. Heck, even his jewelry is because he's covered in brick-mud and fairly unprepared to for an attack on territory he considers his.

The ground is singed where the one coyote had hit his barrier and he starts to get a little more worried as one barks fire. Good. Great. Apparently the hunters had lost the trail.

"Why?" he asks them, as if they could answer. They don't have to. It's Kirkwall, that's why, and he hurls a fireball at one as the other two leap for him.

--

Open at the Rift, aftermath

"Why is the Veil so much more thin here?" His voice is hushed. It's not an attempt at secrecy, more that he's afraid he already knows the answer in a vague way, and the ominous setting doesn't help. Vint dragons and a thin veil? It's probably blood magic. This thin? Probably a lot of blood magic. But what did they think they could do this far underground? Partly underwater, even?

[ooc: feel free to make other things up around the rift during/after if you'd like!]

[thereneverwas]

What kind of rubbish coyote attacks a person, let alone breathes fire?
Barrow is rounding the corner, in the process of pocketing a coinpurse newly won from some unsavory pastime or another, when he sees a man about to get torn to shreds by an unlikely foe. But wild animals, even the fire breathing kind, are no new phenomenon to a mercenary.
"OI!" he calls, followed by a whistle to get the coyotes' attention, his (admittedly in need of maintenance) sword drawn from its sheath and brandished, ready to swing.

aftermath

[dirth]

"Sometimes the Rift is simply thin," Solas says, standing at Anders' side. There's a level of awkwardness about him; it's clear that he is as uncomfortable about this as everyone else is, knowing what the cause is even if he might not say it aloud. The thinning of the Veil in such a thick, clear and intense way... No, it does not bear thinking of.

All the same.

He recognises too much and too little all at once.

"It could have been worse." But it might also have been better.

Thor, ota-ish

[thorndergod]

For Lino

"Toads." There's disbelief in his voice, as well as a little indignation as he looks at the man he's been assigned to work with. At least the guy looks solid and is neither Orlesian or Nevarran.

"We are assigned to deal with vermin." He holds out the scrap of parchment that has their task. "There are possibly demons and definitely packs of dangerous animals about, and they have chosen to task us with toads."

No one else is too close to them, otherwise he'd be more diplomatic about his feelings. Somewhat. As it is, Thor hoists his staff on his back and mutters about hoping to run into something a little more satisfying on the way over. Why toads? Of late he often feels wasted here, and this is another reinforcement of that thought.

Open, at the Rift.

Finally. Finally, there are enemies worth dealing with. Maybe the toads hadn't been easy, but they weren't demons. They weren't something Thor could simply let loose and attack, and right now he could really use a chance for that. With his staff in hand he wades forward into the water eagerly. This isn't time for his specialty, with everyone in the water, but that doesn't mean he's out of tricks with the elements.

"Let us have some fun," he growls, swinging his staff and causing the earth to spike up underneath one despair demon.

[ooc: feel free to make other things up around the rift during/after if you'd like!]

[imbroccata]

"Toads," is repeated, deadpan, before the parchment is held before him, and Lino stares at the words. Toads, indeed. Though his face remains a mask of neutrality, inside he reels. Indignant.

"A waste." They go to all the trouble, through two different attempts to recruit him, and they assign him to deal with toads. What a joke.

Lino fetches up his boar spear, but doesn't strap it to his back. A spear in hand will be a much better deterrent to any crowds when they walk through the city, and more useful if they do, hopefully, come across something more worthy of their skills.

at the rift.

[swordproof]

Six is used to demons, of a sort; they usually come in the form of the undead, in the form of those who had been brought back by a God or a Cleric of some kind, something that must be put to bed so that it might be given a chance at redemption. Sarenrae had guided her in that and she looks for it back in return now, to find a means of giving peace in this world she had been brought into without pause nor hesitation.

Greatsword drawn, she wastes little time in storming the Rift, twisting her arm to bring it down on the head of one of the creatures. It blazes with the fires of divine blessing and she almost yells as she kicks it from the end of her blade, hair already beginning to stick to her face with a mix of the water and her own sweat, fighting as hard as she is covered in her armour.

Thor is almost unnoticeable until she sees the earth spike and she stops, breathing hard.

"Thor!"

athessa, closed to darras

[sulahnan]

"I tried to join a pirate crew, once. Turned out it was a traveling show and they were just dressed like pirates, though." Beneath the apparent ease with which Athessa speaks her mind lies an awkward ignorance of how to properly start a conversation.

"Turns out acrobats don't actually make all that much coin," she says, walking heel-to-toe along a low wall bordering the street. She hasn't seen a single rat, but there haven't been any panicking townsfolk on the way to the docks, either, so...a mixed bag. "Sometimes none at all, which is why--oh, wait! Is that one?!"

She points with her daggers, both held in one hand, at a rat scurrying across the path. It doesn't...look fade-touched, but appearances can be deceiving.

[staysail]

"Regular rat, I'm afraid," Darras confirms, with only a glance. "Bit large, but I've seen larger. Rats the size of your arm. They have 'em in cages in this pub cellar, in Llomerryn. Race 'em about a track. Ever been?"

Lucky for Athessa, Darras makes conversation easily, with nearly anyone, so long as they're willing to answer. He's personable in the way a man that's had to make fast friends might be--not a pushover, but an easy conversationalist. It helps that he likes people.

The rat in question turns a beady-eyed look on them before disappearing around the corner. Darras nods after it.

"Usually flee in droves. If it's just one, I think he's just out for a stroll."

Valentine Nicasius Maxence Mérovée Olivier de Foncé + Skull - closed

[degenere]

"It is a very long way," Val says, his voice a sepulchral echo in the narrow smuggler's tunnel, "to anywhere good. Wouldn't you agree, my friend?"

The fact that he is speaking to a skull floating in a jar only makes the sentiment more true. Val turns a pleasant smile to the thing all the same, though he has to look nearly over his shoulder to do it.

The most practical way to carry a large sample is to lash it to one's back. This piece of wisdom had been shared with Skull when they had first set off on this journey together, in the merry company of others, when the world was brighter and less... tunnely. Now it is the two of them, with the eerie glow of the skull their only light. It turns the world greenish but then, it would be greenish anyways. The mold, and scum, and so forth.

Skull is lashed quite tightly to Val's back. This is likely to be what saved it (Them? Him? Her? The Pronoun, what a mystery!), though Val has not yet demanded a thanks. He turns to consider the way before them, which is very limited, i.e., one way. Behind them is only the remains of the door that they had fallen through, straight down a chute that has led them to be standing here together.

"But then, you may have seen civilizations rise and fall, yes? So what you consider to be good would be quite different than me. Orlais, perhaps? Tell me, what countries do you remember? We must keep one another's spirits up."

[skulltasm]

The Skull bobs gently in the jar, eye sockets pointed forward over Val's shoulder.

"OH, YOU KNOW, THE USUAL ONES--"

It's-their-his-her voice doesn't echo like Val's, or at all, in the tunnel.

"--ORLAIS, TEVINTER, ANTIVA, FERELDEN. THINGS HAVEN'T CHANGED THAT MUCH OVER THE PAST HOWEVER-MANY YEARS I'VE BEEN STUCK IN THIS THING."

Stuck inexplicably, as well. Much like a ship in the bottle, one of the arguably most interesting things about Skull's jar is that the mouth of it is far too small for the head to have been simply placed into it.

The viscous green plasm in the jar sloshes with Val's every movement, and as if stirred by that alone, the Skull drifts back to face behind them.

"BUT I WOULDN'T CONSIDER ANY OF THEM GOOD."

mhavos dalat | ota.

[murderbaby]

a. HIGHTOWN..

Everyone is panicking, which is just... excellent. Wonderful! Precisely the sort of thing Mhavos can handle.

Luck would have it, he's running an errand in Hightown when a sea of glowing deepstalkers make their screaming entrance down one of the main roads. (At least, Mhavos thinks they're deepstalkers. He's seen illustrations...)

The screaming starts somewhere, and it just keeps going. Eventually, it's mixed between rich voices and deepstalker squeals. Mhavos jumps up onto a cart and studies the scene unfurling. He forgets to become upset. He just watches, squinting, as the creatures begin to rip everything in their path apart.

"Merde," he murmurs, and begins looking for something to use... and there's a butcher's cart with horses and everything both screaming as they attempt to free themselves from the post they've been tied to. Mhavos jumps to it, deftly over the sea of deepstalkers below, and grabs for a large knife, almost double the size of his head.

He's used it to cut the horses free, and they tear screaming down the path, sending deepstalkers and raw meat flying, before Mhavos remembers he hasn't a clue how to drive a horse-drawn cart.

b. IN THE MINES.

There's a certain sort of furious idiocy in running toward the source of danger. Mhavos walks lightly, holding up a torchflame, and occasionally consulting a map. He's draped in a tarp, one that seems to cover more and move of his face the deeper down he treks. But that could just be the light.

There is a sound in the darkness. Who could guess what it is, but it's there. Echoing.

"Was that a voice?" Mhavos says, dispassionate. "Could someone have gotten down here before us?"

Someone, not something.

c. DEEPER IN THE MINES. (first come first serve please)

The things that call the dark recesses of Kirkwall's abandoned mines home aren't expecting guests, it turns out. One, a spider rather larger than the sorts Mhavos finds in the library, attacks viciously, and Mhavos catches the worst of it. A slash of blood appears on his left shoulder, and with muted perplexity he notes that its his.

In that strange, distanced place between pain and death, he slumps to the side. Hopefully someone here is a fighter. For him, he'll just rest a while.

d. WILDCARD.

[im down for anything lets go nuts.]

d. secret tunnel

[circleprodigy]

Inessa frowned as she peered at the map fragment before her mabari could sniff at it, taking the momentary lull in action to look over a piece of what they'd found with Mhavos. She could vaguely remember seeing his face in passing, before all the chaos had erupted. He wasn't well-known to her at all, but what better way to learn about someone's mettle than through a crisis?

In that, the universe had provided abundantly. There hadn't been a moment's peace since practically all the underground dwelling creatures had swarmed to the surface in a made rush, all aggressive and some Face-touched. Given past experience, it didn't take much to realize that a rift was likely at fault...the only issue was its precise location. The tunnels beneath Kirkwall were vast and confusing, and certainly not Inessa's own element. She could only hope her companion for this misadventure had a better sense of direction below.

Aligning a couple of map fragments, she glanced over and up. "Look, these two seem to fit rather well. If you have any scraps that line up with them, I think we have our location." Please, Maker, let them be one step further to the end of this madness they'd never anticipated.

eshal fazon | ota.

[saam]

a. LOWTOWN.

So she finally gets here, and everything's completely fucked. Guess Kirkwall lives up to its name.

On one end of the street, there's a rather disgruntled-looking Lurker, fire occasionally whisping up through its jaw. There are bloody scrapes where it's been stabbed.

On the other ed of the street, there's a six-foot-something human, imposing and muscular, with a very long, very sturdy spear in her hands. It's bloody, and she's got some pretty obviously fresh burn wounds on her.

This is not round one.

The creature roars. Eshal does as well. "Katara, vashedan!" And they charge.

b. DOWNTIME. (first come first serve)

A little later, well, Eshal's around and the Lurker isn't. So you do the math. Not that she looks hale and healthy for it. She's bleeding, burnt, and twitching. Her breathing slow and controlled. She's slumped into a corner, amid the chaos, ignoring everything but her own breathing. The spear she fought with is cradled in her hands, but she doesn't seem to be looking at it. She doesn't seem to be looking at anything, though her eyes are open.

She repeats the same phrase over and over. "Itwasaamka. Itwasaamka. Itwasaamka."

She won't take well to interruption... if she even notices it.

c. LOWTOWN ALIENAGE.

It's been years, but there are still Qunari here. What are the fucking odds. They don't look like Qunari, of course. No grey skin or horns. Just some elves who seem to respond to Eshal like she's a lightening rod.

"Parshaara," she says, and they run quickly as she makes room for them with her bulk, parting the sea of fleeing panic.

They turn to her and speak some mangled words in barely-remembered Qunlat, and Eshal answers them with a rude gesture. They're just trying to find high ground. There's no evident danger, here, not yet, at least. Eshal yawns and leans on her spear.

"Nehraa Qun, dipshits. Can't even fuckin' pronounce it." She looks over her shoulder, to the elves fleeing on all sides. "Everybody done here?"

Her voice carries thunderously.

d. WILDCARD.

[im good for anything, let's gooo. translations for qunlat are in hovertext.]

ISAAC | closed

[wythersake]

BASTIEN

It's not a very convincing mop.

It's not a mop at all, obviously, but desperate times (an anxious household staff) and desperate measures. They've already been shown out once: Knocking his staff into the exquisitely-carved Ander vase came far too close to a victory for good taste. Had Bastien's improbable dexterity not juggled to the occasion, no doubt the absent homeowners would need to redecorate in more patriotic fashion.

So here they are, strips of ripped sleeves bound around the end of a very flammable stick, and dressed in a half hour's best approximation of anonymous responsibility. A hat's been acquired. A false moustache. Bastien's own mustache is —

Well,

"Good enough, do you think?"

That doesn't sound anonymous, or responsible.



LAURA

The spider is enormous.

And spotted, and slow, and given time and an Instagram platform it might even become very famous. More pressing: It keeps turning invisible.

That's of limited value to anything enormous and slow. Where another creature might hide, or dash up a wall, it just bumbles into a fruitcart; eight unseen legs kicking melons high into the street. One smashes into the wall beside Isaac's head, sends pink juice dribbling down his forehead.

It's a menace. It's a potential wealth of venom, and Fade-touched pedipalps, and if he hasn't worked out exactly how to return it to the Gallows alive —

"Here, over here," He's offering a sack of raw meat. Don't ask what part of today's chaos it came from. "Easy does it."

The spider flickers back into view, atop a pile of produce, wavers indecisively.

"That's a good girl."



ILIAS

He's filthy, and sweat-soaked, and nursing one fuck of a headache. Ilias can't be doing much better.

They're underground now, and each step only grows hotter, more stifling. The end of his staff blazes in low, steady embers; threatens to slip from slick palms. He jostles it every so often to keep hold, which sends the light bobbing —

Isaac curses under his breath. Viciously:

"We've been through this before."

[libratus]

"Shall I ask the skeleton for directions?"

—is not the most helpful. Ilias has not had much helpfulness to spare, since all the coffee and tea in his life had been replaced by steel-wool packed tight behind his eye sockets. The seventeen layers of charcoal linen presently plastered to skin are hardly helping matters; a stray curl at his brow is all that escapes. He presses a palm below it, smearing free a line of sweat.

"We must have missed a turn. Perhaps-- if we had more light."

laura kint / mostly ota

[justashotaway]

monsters.

She has been given orders, and they are easy: Kill monsters. Do not kill people. You may use all your weapons.

And while that technically means that the sword she was assigned is an option, Laura is more interested in a more direct route. Her claws have always felt more trustworthy than metal, if only because it's impossible to have them knocked from her hand.

She's agile and superbly flexible, quick on her feet and ready to swipe out at an enemy on the turn of a gold piece. There's something nearly mechanical about the way she fights, though, a distance that she couldn't put into words if she wanted to.

It's possible to find her all over Kirkwall as needed, at any point in a fight. Maybe there's a trio of lizards advancing on the pair of you, or she's trying to strip the fangs from something she's killed. Maybe you nearly shot an arrow through her in the heat of battle. Or maybe she nearly stabbed you--whatevs. Everything's an option.

specific monsters. closed to alistair.

They are belowground, and Laura hates the scent of it almost as much as the heavy air. Each breath is warmer than it should be, and they all smell like the earth above them. It is not difficult to recognize the significant possibilty of being buried alive in the darkness, but she cannot let that dominate her thoughts. She has an objective--and more than that, she has someone she needs to keep alive.

He might be able to do that himself--he is a Grey Warden--but Laura does not want to leave anything to chance. Coming back to the Gallows without her partner will not be evidence of her abilities, she suspects, even if she completes the mission set before her. She lets him carry the torch, does her best to stay close but ahead of him. And she does not say anything.

Not until she hears scratching in the darkness. Somewhere ahead, something glows--and the claws in Laura's hands and feet come out. "Put the torch down."

humans. not monsters?

"Stop talking," she says irritably. "Go in your house. I killed the rats."

And left them in the front hallway, but removing them was not part of the mission. Perhaps she should not have accompanied you to Hightown.

former humans. not monsters.

Skeletons are...they are interesting. She can imagine them as people, looking at them in the thin light from her claws, even though it has probably been years since they were. The bones are so dry that it's impossible for her to know what they died of, but she has a theory based on the crunched pieces of skull.

Laura pokes a claw between a pair of ribs, idly curious in the hot, quiet dark, and it hooks around something. Carefully, she pulls it up and finds some kind of slender chain hooked around it. That's what you'll find her doing, if you turned your back for a moment: peering at an old necklace in the darkness, trying to figure out what the pendant is without actually touching it.

healing. hopefully no monsters.

She's exhausted--at some point, she's exhausted. And no matter what else is true, she's going to end up with some surface damage; get that close to enough creatures looking to do harm, and something's going to get a hit in. Quite a few somethings, before she's willing to back down.

So she'll be curled up someplace, in a doorway or under a broken sign or otherwise holed up like a wounded animal, poking idly at a cut or bite like she's trying to tell it to heal faster. Patience is not, exactly, her strongest suit.

dinner. dead monsters.

The city is out of control, and somehow, that feels comforting. In the midst of all this chaos, Laura feels calm. (Is that it? Calm? She feels as if she can fight anything that crosses her. She knows how to solve every problem she can think of here. This is what she knows how to do. There's security in that.)

In a small crossroads that has--for the moment--been abandoned by both people and beasts, she makes a sort of camp. It is easy enough to cut apart what was once a market stall, keeping a swath of fabric to wrap around her thin shoulders, and pyramid it into the shape of a fire. Lighting it takes more effort, but eventually, the wood catches.

Once she can trust the flame to survive, she turns to the enormous nug she cut down an hour ago. It has fire damage from one of its brothers' breaths, but its innards weren't sundered when she stabbed it: the meat is still good. She butchers it artlessly, brows furrowed with the work, and holds a bloody leg in the fire. If there is an easier way to do this, she hasn't learned it.

"You can have some," she offers, feeling very generous, when passersby come near to her. "But you must sit there."

And she gestures at a place more than arm's reach from her, her hand as bloody as her face.

wildcard. possible monsters?

[Laura is going to do a lot of fighting in this event, naturally, but I'm happy to write just about anything! Want to come to blows (or get dangerously close) while you're trying to negotiate with a citizen? Get horribly injured and have her find you? Rinse off after a bunch of monster murdering? Negotiate sleeping shifts out in the field, so you don't have to trudge back to the Gallows? Ransack a chest somebody lost? IDK, we could do all kinds of stuff. If you'd like to plan out something specific, please feel free to PM this journal, PP prettydoes, or disco dove#9906!]

former humans.

[saam]

Eshal is not, in fact, the type to hold grudges. The clawed creature she met in the woods was strange, but now that the moment's passed, the heat's gone. Also, Eshal has her spear and she's in full fighting kit. Helps things, sometimes.

"Stealing from the dead, now?" She sounds more amused than judgmental.

Closed to Tavin

[overharrowed]

Historical maps should have been a quiet assignment. Julius' main concern is cataloging the collection, as well as noting any maps that offer particular insight that might be of concern to Riftwatch as a whole. He's not entirely sure if the mansion's owner is a supporter on ideological grounds or if he's been compensated, but either way he seemed to find Julius and Tavin sufficiently trustworthy that he's left them to their work without much supervision.

Which is why Julius' head snaps up when a small lectern falls over on the other end of the room, with no one anywhere near it. He glances at Tavin with a frown, and quietly starts moving toward the fallen piece of furniture. Taking his staff off his back seems like overkill, but he's still cautious.

...which is good, because suddenly an animal is darting between his ankles and he might have reflexively set it on fire if he'd had the opportunity to do so before remembering he was in a room full of paper documents. He doesn't immediately register that it's a raccoon, but does say "Watch out" in a general way as it darts in Tavin's direction.

[taxonomy]

More accustomed to the field since Orlais said yes, congratulations you've graduated off you go, Tavin's by no means forgotten this part of the job even if most of it is complaining about the state other people leave it in, their own poor notekeeping and shoddy theories, that sort of things.

Given his line of work, Tavin doesn't bother looking up from the papers at first because if you did that every single time there was something being knocked over because, say, the deepstalker young escaped and ransacked the kitchen (one time) then you'd probably end up detaching your head.

Tavin's papers unfortunately go flying - something had been nesting in them, that had been distracting but maybe helpful in figuring out dates - when there's something by his legs that he spins for, a hand outstretched.

"Right well-- calm voices. Calm low voices, no need for alarm that'll only rile it up more. Whatever it...that was a tail, certainly, rules out plenty." And rules in plenty more but this is a former Circle of Magi in a place where ships come in and out, it's probably crawling with cats who delight in spooking more than any spirit or demon. Fieldwork is infinitely more interesting than paperwork as he eyes the lectern. "How solid would you guess that is?"

closed to solas.

[tender]

When she'd first heard what was happening, Derrica had actually laughed. Fire-breathing bats. Who ever heard of such a thing?

As it turns out, they're very, very real. And probably a real danger to the ships in the harbor. Derrica skids to the end of the docks, squinting up at the swarm as she shifts her grip anxiously on her staff.

"What do we do?" she asks immediately, because she doesn't really need anyone to tell her that Solas is the more experienced caster between them. "They'll have all the ships in cinders at this rate!"

And this is certainly no time for Derrica's shaky force magic, as much as she might like to send those bats spinning out of formation. She whirls back to look at Solas. Most everything she's fought has had the decency to be on the ground, or at least close enough for her to whack at it with her staff. This is a whole other type of problem that she isn't sure how to deal with.

[dirth]

Solas is not quite as shocked as his partner seems to be; fire-breathing bats are the least of his concerns in a modern-day Thedas. The problem is, of course, finding the best way to get rid of them before they cause more trouble than they're worth, and that's an issue indeed. With his staff in hand for a moment, all he can do is stare at them, lips pursed.

"I can bring them lower," he says, pointing his staff forward, "with Rift magic. Perhaps then we might encase them in ice and use that to finish them?"

It's not a perfect solution, but it seems like something that might actually work.

It's obvious that he's frustrated, a little on edge and not entirely pleased with the situation he's found himself in, lifting his staff and watching the bats with wary-eyed caution.

closed to colin.

[hornswoggle]

"They don't seem to be having it!"

John shouts this over the increasingly furious invective flowing forth from the crowd. His knuckles are white where they grip his crutch. He's seen a crowd turn before. He's less afraid for his life here than he would have been in other places, in Nascere even, but he's very aware that this is going poorly and they'll have to either miraculously diffuse the situation or flee.

"If I get them to listen do you think you have anything else that might make them stop cursing our mothers?"

Though the tankard that whips past their heads is probably a sign that they're well past anyone stopping to listen.

[keenly]

“Um.” Colin has no idea what he’s meant to have up his sleeve that John doesn’t. He also has very reasonable and natural fears when it comes to violent mobs, to go with the deep-seated and unnatural fear of crowds in general. And noise, and people, and speaking in public.

“I’ve got...three escape routes,” he suggests, looking rather more relaxed than he feels.

closed to kostos.

[swordproof]

The tunnel collapsing had not been the most devastating of blows to their search; Six had imagined that she might be able to lift the rocks and make a way for them to get out, even with the tight space of the corner room they'd found themselves in. She had even imagined she might be able to use some of her own magic, gleefully returned to her, do to something about being trapped, but that had been before the arrival of the creatures that seem to be echoing like hammers on steel in her mind.

It doesn't take much for her to reach for her greatsword, only hesitating to lift her head to see if there was space enough for her to make good use of it. Her sword is large, made and forged to fit her size and her weight, so it is not the kind of thing she had imagined to use in a tunnel. She has to make sure she doesn't hit Kostos, and there's a level of awkwardness about it before she steps forward, eyes flicking from one side to the other.

Whatever Divine Sense Sarenrae had given her at home, it was not working on these beasts.

"I am certain there are more," she says finally, voice low, quiet. "I can hear them - not just their calls, but their feet. Are you prepared?"

To fight or to run - whichever they need to do first, she thinks.

[exequy]

He answers with a glare that’s illuminated by the glow of a wisp. She hasn’t done anything to warrant being glared at, herself, but it isn’t personal. They’re trapped, they’re besieged, he can feel his pulse in his jaw in a way that predicts a headache.

He’s prepared, though, and preparing further, pulling more wisps through the Veil until he’s accumulated a half dozen. Their offensive magic is weak, but enough to help Six while she does—sword stuff. Whatever.

One of the wisps drifts further down the tunnel ahead of them, at his go ongesture. Its faint glow shows nothing, then a flicker of something, then nothing again.

“Fuck this,” Kostos hisses under his breath.

yngvi ota

[filthydipper]

closed to matthias
Maybe Yngvi could have said something but there are two people here and what good would it have done, realistically speaking, to have shouted? Because the outcome would still be the same (this is the argument he's playing in his head, a little puppet either hand which is how all good head arguments go) but noisier. Probably. It'd still be one dwarf and one mage child - how do you age a human anyway that's just an inconvenience - who'd gone arse over tit all the way down but someone could play the righteous victim. You don't do that with a mage about unless they're apostate for life and chill about the whole scene.

Anyway there's a ghastly stink to most noses which is the scent of home because you get accustomed to it and so long as it's not Orzammar eau de Darkspawn then sure Yngvi will take that any day of the week thank you good sir.

"I used to live down here you know, well not here-here but Darktown is Darktown, I'll find us a way." Someone will be the adult, the bigger man. (He is the shorter man. He is used to being shorter than the children but even mountains will be hewn to dust in time.) Then something-- yeah something touched him, that wasn't a drip. "Just a reminder, I've got dwarf eyes, I can see down here. So. Yeah. Just--" He'd point but he's trying to get a sense of where they even are and what that smell is.

darktown
No he's not--

Look right fine he's sort of slacking on the job but here's the awkward thing when your family actually does live where the job is and they want to know what's going and why they should bugger off when they could move in. (And really, sort of hard to argue that the Carta might be hard up in these times, resentful as they already are of the Riftwatch-formerly-known-as-Inquisition.)

"Just-- piss off somewhere else. And stop looting things until everything trying not to bite you in the arse isn't dead, why is that difficult?" Which is all hissed in the tired tone of a boy trying to explain to the old that no it doesn't work that way stop demanding things of me old people just please get it done and leave me be.


wildcard
[do you need a dwarf who knows their way around all of kirkwall? do you need an artificer? or do you have some other reason for requiring a dwarf?]

darktown.

[saam]

Eshal hasn't seen much of dwarves in her life. For the logical reason-- she hasn't been in places or jobs where dwarves tend to show up-- and practical ones-- being over six foot means you just kind of miss them. For whatever reason, it makes this exchange interesting. Is this how things always are between dwarves?

She makes no attempt to hide the fact that she's watching. Leaning against her spear (the walls are too damned dirty), her eyes flash curiously. When the dwarf seems finished with his conversation, she lets out a low whistle. "Official Riftwatch business, huh?"

tavin ota

[taxonomy]

hightown
Somewhere Adalberto is enjoying not being part of all of this and Tavin is relieved, in a small way, to not have a horse liable to kick him in the head to be spared more nonsense that he didn't sign up for. Respectable enough by his own merit to be certain, that doesn't mean that Tavin's actually engaging with the populace (Marchers? No, no thank you) even if he's got a bow slung over his shoulder because he's not entirely unaware of the dangers of going about unarmed.

What he does have is a notebook, the rest of his field kit in a battered satchel.

The other one is-- well a man requires samples.

A man is possibly also catching live specimens. Maybe. Why else would a man be wandering about with bats and rats and deepstalkers and whatever else he can reasonably coax.

"Well you are a feisty one aren't you!" Is he delighted? He does sound delighted even with that bloodied finger telling the tale of a fiend who has bitten once and will absolutely bite again if given the chance.

wildcard
[do you need or want a Nevarran zoologist to show up and assist? Can Tavin be that person taking notes while a big nasty spider is eating your face and please, a little closer to the mouthparts if you will, for science. Or whatever he is about. To document it all if there are creatures to document and parts to collect.]

closed for kain

[notched]

The Hunter finds this all quite familiar. That the tainted and emboldened creatures are coming up, driven out by something far larger and far more tainted than they. She observes the wetness on those coming up from the sewers and has no trouble piecing together that it is where they need to turn for discovery. Even when the paths grow tinier and darker, she is not exactly surprised. She is surprised that Kirkwall too is built on such a similar maze as Yharnam was, but not by the darkness nor the things within.

She looks back at him, just her eyes visible above the mask that goes over her nose and from below the wide-brimmed hat on her head. Still, her dark eyes convey concern: does he really want to go down further with her.

She doesn't know him from anyone, but she would not like to be the cause of any Rift Watcher's death.

[in_death_sacrifice]

It's always underground, isn't it? Even though he's been a Warden for long enough to get used to it, it's still an aspect of his life that Kain doesn't particularly enjoy accepting. Still, he gets why he'd been tasked with taking on something down here. The massive deepstalker they're after is a major threat... and the threat of the taint is ever present down here too. So it's a good thing he's been sent along in this case. He's armored up in his typical Warden gear, two-handed sword drawn.

He doesn't know his partner here either. He'd been surprised at first they didn't just send along another Warden, but on the other hand maybe there was a good reason. They only had so many forces to spread out, after all, so they can't have all their Wardens in one place. As long as she's a capable fighter, that's what matters most at this point.

"Have you fought a deepstalker before?" Maybe they can strategize as they get to its location. They'll probably close in on it very soon at this rate.

closed for loki

[coquettish_trees]

Even living a life such as Loki's, there are some things that entirely cross the border into the unexpected; such as catching your wife, her robe slipping fetchingly off one shoulder, in the middle of speaking rather suggestively to a waist-high spider in the corner of the bathing room opposite the door.

"I take it I am to be tied this time, then, mon habile coeur," Alexandrie purrs pleasantly as it waves its forelegs at her in wary curiosity.

[hwaaaitsme]

Loki halts in the doorway, his quill grasped in one hand and his notebook in the other. His wife, a beautiful creature always, is draped coquettishly against the countertop, her favorite sylph robe falling off her shoulder, and making the fondest bedroom eyes at--what appears to be a massive, fade-touched spider.

Its arms are raised in warning and its...well he can't recall what they are called. The bits with the fangs in them. Not quite a mouth. This is why he hated changing into insect shapes. There was venom? Something dripping.

"My dear?" Loki prompts, still frozen in half step, and debates his course of action. He is fast with a knife but the creature is already prepped to attack. He might be faster than it...but it is not his own life he is gambling with.

"Am I interrupting?"