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.

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!]

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!]

[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.

[justice_is_blond]

He breathes a sigh of relief when someone else shows up and the coyotes pause their attack for now. Barrow. They'd met briefly before, and Anders is glad he hadn't managed to insult the guy so much that he'd not help out.

"I know people are looking to deal with them but apparently they've been given the slip," he says, slowly circling around so that he can stand near enough to Barrow to share a barrier. Now he sees the sword, and the shape it's in, and for the briefest of moments he frowns before he recalls the situation. Maybe the guy just doesn't fight much. At least he'd called the creatures' attention.

The middle one steps forward, and the other two start to try to flank on either side. Anders pulls his belt knife and stretches out the fingers of his free hand, sending lightning into the center (and possibly in charge? Did coyotes have leaders?) animal.

[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.

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.

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."

[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."

[sulahnan]

"No, I've only been around Kont-aar and up-west of the bay," Up-west being, of course, the cool way to say northwest.

"They did say giant rats, right? I wonder if they'll be bigger than yours." If nothing else, they'll be more fade-touched. At the next step Athessa takes, her foot slips forward on the lip of the wall, and her elvishly unshod feet register a jolt of cold that has her hopping down and stamping on the stones.

"Fucking fade ice--" She trails off, hopping on one foot with the other in her hands, but her attention is on the ice-crusted wall. There's a clear line where the ice starts, crackling audibly but staying frozen despite the heat.

[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."

[staysail]

Darras, having reached out a hand to steady her, if she needs it--hopping on one foot usually leading to overbalancing, and falling, and all, he's seen it--follows Athessa's gaze toward the wall. The ice that she'd trod on spreads up, a trail that runs along the floor and unfurls on the wall opposite of them. There it runs along, until the wall turns, following the curve of the path that they're on, disappearing into darkness--and more ice, looks like.

Darras whistles, low and impressed. "Now, that seems more the thing we'd be looking for, eh? Rats is rats, but that's--" Some brand of magic, clearly, for one. The way it's still there despite the heat so thick it's like you could slice off a bit of it. He steps over to have a better look at it--not too close, but close enough that he feels some of the chill off of its face. "What d'you think. If we bring an ice-breathing rat back to the Gallows--employ it to make us a room of ice, and then we can all sit in it, until this thrice-damned heat is over. Would they make heroes of us, or should we stick to the mission?"

[sulahnan]

Damn, that shit's cold. Colder than normal ice, to be sure.

But a grin spreads over Athessa's face. "Just one?" She produces a bundle of snares and a large sack she had folded in her pack. "We just need to contain them, and make sure they don't get out of Kirkwall, right? I'd say that gives us a lot of wiggle room with what we do with them."

Yes, she'd been planning to capture at least one, if not more. Fade touched animals being the reason she got involved with the Inquisition in the first place, she knows that they're something somebody somewhere will want to study, if not put to good use.

[degenere]

The scoff that Val gives--sharp and disbelieving--goes off like a shot in the confined space. He had just moved to inspect a nearby wall, using the light emitted by his traveling companion to search for any sign of a door or opening, cleverly concealed.

In a moment, he will resume. Now he looks back at the Skull once more. "You had not visited the correct places of Orlais, if that is your feeling. Indeed there are many parts of this world worth seeing, that are wondrous to behold. I have made it my business to see them. Tell me: if not these lands, then what is it that you would consider 'good'?"

[staysail]

The soft sound of the reveal of snares gets Darras' attention, and he looks back with interest. An appreciative grin jumps to his face once he's worked out what he's seeing.

"See, now, that right there tells me: you'd've made for a very good pirate. A missed opportunity, I'd call that. There's nothing quite like seeing the work someone else isn't willing t' do and finding a way to..." He pauses, like he's searching for the right word, and after appropriate comedic pause, supplies it: "Profit."

Leaving the welcome chill of the ice wall, he comes back to Athessa, examining what she's brought along with her.

"How d'you set one of these?"

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.]

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.]

[skulltasm]

"EASY FOR YOU TO SAY, YOU'VE GOT A BODY."

Skull has been without one for so long, it doesn't even remember what it was like to have one. It doesn't remember its name, hence the very apt moniker of Skull, or what it did in life. If it ever had one. There are those¹ in Riftwatch who would argue that Skull is simply a spirit inhabiting the skull of a long-dead denizen of Thedas, but that's not how Skull feels.

If it feels.

"SEEING IS ALL I CAN DO. I CAN'T TOUCH ANYTHING, OR TASTE ANYTHING, OR SMELL ANYTHING, OR EVEN MOVE ON MY OWN, AS WELL YOU KNOW. I'VE BEHELD MANY LIBRARIES, CATACOMBS, MAUSOLEUMS, TAVERN SHELVES, BROOM CLOSETS, SHIP HOLDS AND SHIP WRECKS. IF YOU LOOK INTO A PAINTING, HAVE YOU BEEN THERE?"



1. Kostos Averesch.

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."

[sulahnan]

It's not possible to grin broader, but she beams at the compliment before commencing her tutorial.

"Pull the loop here wide, slip it over the animal's neck, then--" She slips the snare over her wrist to serve as an example, then pulls the loop closed with a snap and demonstrates that the snare is locked in place. "This end of the cord hooks to this piece automatically once the loop is tight."

She cards through the many snares and hands off roughly half to Darras. "Downside is we have to do this by hand instead of just setting and forgetting them."

[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."

[staysail]

A lifetime (more or less) at sea has given Darras the skill of expert knot-tying--which means he accepts the mass of snares Athessa hands over, and gets right to work at them. The first one he does slow, making sure he's got the movements her hands had done fixed in his head. It's simple, so his second is quickly done--and his third, even quicker.

"Think of what comes after all this fiddly manual work," he says, helpfully. "That's how to stay motivated at it. Does this mean you're some sort of hunter?"

[sulahnan]

"When I have to be," she hedges, giving a half-shrug. She hasn't done much hunting in a long long while, but it's one of those things she learned early enough that it's hard to shake the muscle memory. "Kind of comes with the territory, I guess." Elf. Dalish. Not that the latter is as obvious as the former.

Athessa follows the ice, one snare ready while the others rest easily in the crook of her arm. She moves easily, not hesitant but not hurrying, casual, a spark of excitement buzzing in her chest. She loves this shit. Spooky magic, dangerous creatures, and a chance to impress someone. A Tailor-Made Athessa Adventure.

"Just make sure that any we wanna keep, we unlock the snare before putting them in the bag. Otherwise they'll suffocate."

[degenere]

Ah. Philosophy. Not a favorite topic of Val's, to be sure--but not one he is entirely opposed to, either. There is nothing quite like academic discussion, nearly regardless of topic.

Val continues his path along the wall, using his hand to seek out depressions or soft places or anything that might indicate a way out. One does not design a hole with no way to access it. For even if the purpose of some hole is to be an oubliette, the sadistic owner of that oubliette will want to return to view the remains of his victim.

"That would depend upon the beauty and sumptuousness of the painting, I think. I have beheld some works that give one the very impression of entry. Are you familiar with Gropaiz?"