faderift | EVENT ↠ THE DRIFTING ROADS

Entry tags:

EVENT ↠ THE DRIFTING ROADS

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: A Crossroads Adventure
WHEN: Most of Cloudreach 9:46
WHERE: The Crossroads
NOTES: OOC post!

A team recently discovered a cluster of eluvians, one of which leads into the attic of an occupied home in Minrathous. This could be an extremely useful route if it can be made safely accessible, but that will require careful planning. In the meantime, Riftwatch needs to urgently explore the other eluvians in the cluster to ensure that none of them make the Minrathous route too dangerous to keep open (for instance, if another leads into the center of Val Royeaux or the royal palace in Cumberland, or anywhere else that a party of enemy combatants could quickly cause terrible trouble).

To that end, teams are assigned to explore and (as much as is possible in the Crossroads) map where the others lead and what the paths between them are like so that the danger/usefulness of each can be assessed. Because there are dozens and this needs to be done as quickly as possible, anyone with any time may be ordered to take on an exploration shift. Assignments will be given to small teams or pairs, but never to just one person alone. Some people may be assigned multiple shifts. (These assignments will be made IC, but OOC you're free to choose your own teams.)

The aim of this event is to focus on the Crossroads themselves, so the eluvians investigated will almost all lead to other eluvians and to islands of disconnected pieces of the Crossroads. It may be necessary to travel between and through several successive eluvians to different portions of the Crossroads to ensure there's no access to a vulnerable location.

The portions of the Crossroads teams will be exploring now will come with a variety of frustrating geographical hazards, any number of which your characters may encounter during their travels:

RECONCILIATION ROAD: One eluvian will be positioned in the distance on a narrow island of the Crossroads and reachable only by two paths that unfurl ahead of people as they walk and finally converge to reach the island. The paths will slowly angle toward one another if the people walking on each of them discuss a topic of disagreement, coming together to meet at the eluvian if the parties are reasonable and calm during the discussion and make some earnest effort to find common ground along the way. They won't have to wind up in perfect agreement to reach the end, but breaking into fighting or being stubborn or petty will result in the paths diverging instead of coming together. People who already agree about something won't be able to make it work—they'll have to find something to disagree about, even if it's just the best color of flower. A monument at the beginning will explain its purpose (using Veilfire writing that gives mental impressions, rather than requiring knowledge of ancient elven languages): the paths were designed to require people to calmly discuss their differences on their way to reach someone appointed to mediate disputes at the end, rather than allowing them to barge in shouting.
IMPULSE AVENUE: An area will be populated by spirits who will act out a form of people's repressed feelings/impulses on their behalf. That might mean a nonverbal wisp or a more distinct verbal spirit. So a wisp who is acting on behalf of Person A might shoot little icicles at Person B because Person A is annoyed with them, or a more substantial spirit might hit on Person B because Person A thinks they're cute, et cetera. The spirits won't volunteer to explain why they're doing this, but the verbal ones could identify Person A as the source of the desire if pressed on the subject, especially if Person A secretly wants it known.
INNER CHILD BOULEVARD: Teams may need to pass through a particularly twisty, shifting maze that's only passable with the guidance of spirits—specifically, spirits who, for some unknown reason connected to their original purpose when the Crossroads were a thoroughfare, present as ghostly forms of the people they're guiding as they were when they were children. They'll know that they're spirits and that their purpose is to guide people through the maze, not mistake themselves for "real" people, but they'll behave and speak in the manner of the child they're imitating while doing so. (Like all spirits, they rely on the information available to them from people, so if there's some significant difference between the way a person recalls themselves as a child vs. how they really were, the spirit will only be able to imitate what the person recalls.)
SUSPICION CIRCLE: A pack of fear spirits (specific breed: suspicion) has control of a dark, tunnel-y portion of the Crossroads. They're able to rearrange the paths to lead people in circles rather than allowing them to escape, all the while trying to stoke fear and drive wedges between people by whispering to them about any fears they may harbor (or that just seem reasonable) about their companions' motives, loyalty, etc. Resisting the fear will prevent the spirits from feeding and eventually make them unable to keep up with rearranging the paths, allowing people to escape. Otherwise, if people do give into fearing one another and thus feed them, they'll have to be fought or outsmarted some other way.

They may also encounter other minor hazards and irritations, such as:

SPIRITS OF VALOR: Bridges or paths may occasionally be occupied by these fierce spirits who will demand that any who wish to pass first best them in single combat. They can also sometimes be passed without a fight, if you manage to out-swagger them.
WILD GOOSE SPIRITS: Spirits that will lead anyone who follows them in pointless circles for as long as possible. They may appear offering assistance, claiming they know the way to the party's destination and can lead them to it, or claiming to have been sent by another group that needs their help urgently. On rare occasions the aid they seek will be real, just far too late--they may lead people to scenes of spirits falling to their deaths as paths crumble, crying out for help but unable to be saved.
MOOD WISPS: Characters may encounter clusters of small wisps that will follow them about and change color depending on the mood of the person they're hovering near. If that person's emotions are particularly extreme they may also hum a little, annoyingly, in a way that vaguely indicates the relevant feeling.
TRUTH PATHS: Paths that will fall away if you tell a lie. It doesn't require active truth-telling to cross, so you can be silent the whole time if you like, but if you lie about something while wandering the path will vanish ahead of you and will not reappear until you correct the lie. They aren't clearly marked.
PUZZLES EVERYWHERE: There are puzzles. They're everywhere, and they're frequently required to unlock an eluvian or make a pathway appear. Some of them might require people to play Ancient Elven Symbol Twister. Or Ancient Elven Symbol Hopscotch, if that's more your thing.

This project will be ongoing, in addition to characters' normal duties, until events TBA.

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i. inner child

The younger elf is very much Thranduil's mirror, down to the shape of his nose and the set of his mouth, but Thranduil is modest and even austere by comparison, in that the child has jewelled flowers placed artfully in his hair and is wearing a robe with embroidery that quite likely took decades.

He blinks big pretty grey eyes, and holds out a pale uncalloused hand. The nails shine with clear varnish. He is the picture of cherubic health.

"I will take you," he says, and the accent is more pronounced, the lilt turning the words sing-song.

Thranduil gestures impatiently.

"Do it," he says.

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This is bizarre. And hilarious. But mostly bizarre. Of anyone in Riftwatch, Athessa would've expected herself to appear unchanged compared to her younger self, but here Thranduil is, and there Thranduil is as well, looking like he's just gotten a makeover.

"I'll help! I'm good at tracking!"

That voice, high pitched and with a slight lisp thanks to a few missing baby teeth, comes from a little smudge of dirt and wild curls just beyond the younger Thranduil. Looking to be about six or seven, the miniature Athessa is beaming up at all three of her taller new friends, excited at the prospect of showing off her skills.

The older Athessa looks at Thranduil, the austere one, and compresses her lips in a tight smile. "This can't go wrong at all."

While Thranduil gives his younger self very little attention, he stares at Athessa with unshielded and utter affection. He has the sense to know that it is not actually an elven child, merely an approximation of one, made out of spirits and will- but he is something similar, and has gotten along on that much well enough.

Any other desires (to pick her up, to wipe the smudge off her cheek, to braid the curls out of her face) are firmly stomped down and likely to be transmuted into the acquisition of another nug, or maybe a bird. They only have the two, after all.

"Are you?" he says, and offers his hand to the young girl, to be dragged along in the manner of indulgent parents everywhere. To Athessa: "No, not at all."

His counterpart hesitates, rocking back and forth on his toes.

It's not that she wouldn't give her child-self the time of day, really, just that...well, Thranduil's got it handled, and is undoubtedly better with kids, and even if seven-year-old Athessa is only a spirit, she wouldn't want to let her in on what's in store for her later.

As Babythessa is slapping her hand into Thranduil's and starting to drag him forward as enthusiastically as she's explaining the minutiae of tracking and why it doesn't really matter in here anyway but it's still important to know, the real Athessa gives the other spirit a somewhat rueful smile before taking his awaiting hand.

"You get to take my hand, then, I guess--oh. Sorry, it's a little rough."

Thranduil edges in questions when Babythessa pauses for breath, grave and serious and favoring her with the whole of his focus. If he takes long strides, he can match her half-jog very easily.

Small Thranduil nods gravely and takes her hand, fingers curling tightly around her own. Taking escorting very seriously, he stares down at the path ahead of them, and kicks the occasional small rock out of the way. The shoes appearing from under the robes are pointed at the toe.

"How old are you?" Thranduil calls back over his shoulder, turning his head briefly to glance back at her. "Or is it 'how old were you'? I fear we lack the particular nuances of language to discuss this."

Athessa shakes her head, taking a guess at: "Seven?"

And saying it in unison with the spirit. Uncomfortable. She lifts her guide's hand and waves it like she's holding it up for Thranduil to see. "What about you? You pretty much look the same, so..."

He lets out a shocked sort of squeak, then looks furious, cheeks coloring, but doesn't try to take his hand back from Athessa.

Thranduil frowns, looking at himself, the clothes, the baby-fat cheeks.

"Twenty-five? Thirty?"

"Oh, my age, then, ok..." She looks at the young one again, trying to do the math on that. "Wait, how old are you now?"

"This next bit is tricky," the seven-year-old interjects, pointing ahead to a section of the path that separates from itself into floating steps that lead somewhere unseen. "We have to climb. And be careful, because sometimes the steps move and you don't wanna fall over the side. It's a looooong long long long way down."

"If I had been born in Thedas, I would have lived in Arlathan." He says it very casually, because not giving a number is probably better, right? Slightly less absurd, at least.

He kneels down to her level.

"Shall I carry you, and you tell me where to step?"

Very casually, and not at all bragging, smaller Thranduil says, "I do not need to be carried."

Babythessa side-eyes Babydruil over her shoulder, clearly defiant.

"I don't need to be carried, either!" But rather than stubbornly refuse to be carried to make a point, she nods decisively and lifts her arms in the universal up, please gesture. "It'll be faster, though, so yes please."

Athessa gives a grown-up version of the side-eye as well.

"Good thing you don't need carrying, because you'd be shit outta luck."

Thranduil flips his hair over to one side before picking her up and setting her on his shoulders, one hand on a shin, the other free to grab his sword, if needed.

"You aren't strong enough?" says Babydruil, very politely, all wide-eyes. But she knows what he'll turn into, or what mind he was plucked from, and being able to get away with playing stupid six thousand years ago doesn't carry into the current time.

"You're like two feet taller than me!" Athessa protests, though it ends up being a quieter exclamation than Babythessa's excitement at being up so high.

"I've never been this tall before! No wonder you decided to keep growing!" As if one may choose when one stops getting taller. Ugh. She was cute once, what happened? That's a stupid question. She knows what happened. She lived it.

Babythessa leans on the top of Thranduil's head with one forearm and points ahead, three steps yonder. "Step there, but not on the left side. It'll crumble. And when you get to the fifth one, only step on the left side."

Having been provides ammunition, Babyduil replies, "You decided to stop growing," and then he takes her hand, holding tightly, and follows behind his taller counterpart in on-beat steps, occasionally glancing behind to make sure Athessa is still there and following directions.

Thranduil is doing as told, allowing himself to be piloted. "Would you like to be tall?"

Babythessa looks back at Babydruil and then at Athessa, assessing with shrewd spirit-child eyes.

"I probably had good reasons," she says, then returns to her duties as guide. Athessa is still there and following directions, thankyouverymuch, having to do some light jogging to keep up with Babydruil's strides. The spirit on Thranduil's shoulders continues:

"Sometimes I think being tall would be useful," she says, very serious. "Like for climbing, or reaching things from up high. But then I think about how good I am at hiding, and how much harder it'd be if I had so many more limbs to try and fold up. I'm already good at climbing and hiding, but if I was tall, I would be good at climbing and bad at hiding."

Athessa frowns, following that logic and...actually, finds it sound. She's gotten out of plenty of sticky situations purely by being able to squeeze through small gaps or hide in unlikely places.

The Crossroads is uncomfortable, dull, hostile,

So that's little beyond the ordinary. She leaves him first to inspect the Veilfire (invasive as it would name her), waits to see it herself, all the same.

There are other roads. Not far into this reflection, she came upon a wolf-headed man, slavering a cry for challenge; later her own voice called from the center of a maze. She did not turn within.

"All wine," She exchanges him a look, trusts he'll catch it. They haven't spoken much of late, but they've always thought a bit alike — perhaps moreso now. She feels older than a year ago. Feels it for an Age. "Tastes the same."

"Don't be absurd," he says, turning back from his own inspection and already off to an excellent start if not entirely in the spirit in which the Elvhen intended it. He catches the look. For Coupe, he'd compromise even without the inducement, he is fond of her in the way blackberry bushes are fond of bears.

"Do you recall," he begins, as he steps on the path, "the wine we had in Nevarra? When I hosted that small gathering in our rooms?"

"Yes," Reflexive, false: She remembers the night, but any detail of the bottles were self-inflicted casualties. "It was as any other I have tasted. Unless you imply it altered for company."

Genuine horror, or at least the reflective display of it on his face.

"It was very likely the only Dorwinion we will ever have in Thedas."

Maybe if he dreams about it hard enough, he can get another crate or two of it to fall through.

Offhand, "Perhaps it is the lyrium."

"You know I get enough of that shit from Yngvi,"

— Is out before she's thought to stop it. Had she ever written him back, taken his apology? Had she ever meant to? The path curls apart, quicker than bruise; she shakes her head. A breath.

"The dream of Dorwinion," Carefully. "Tastes as any wine. Perhaps it is different, in its true cask."

She doesn't believe in those. Still, the path simmers, settles back into place.

“I did not know,” he admits. He waits a moment, more willing to let the paths spiral and settle than risk an uncertain step. “I do not intend to meddle. I have never thought myself entitled to an opinion on your use.”

He wonders also if it is a safe topic to bring up with Yngvi. Well, he can stumble onto the answer later. He matches her conciliatory tones.

“Are there— ales, perhaps, that have different qualities, or is that all alike, also?”

"None meddle," Her hand across grey air, dismissive: It's nothing. "Everyone has a bloody opinion."

(It's not nothing, it isn't only Yngvi; else she'd have written him back.)

"Some ales are bitter with herbs," A stone lurches up before her, a dog awaiting direction. "Others are watered to piss. You do not water your wine."

She allows. The stone takes it — the stone doesn't take it far; settling but a step ahead.

"It does not flatter you, that so many would fret over you?" He isn't so adventurous, merely patient, a step or two behind on his own path.

"I do," he admits, off-hand, an extra nugget of information. "For Gwenaëlle, when we have dinner guests. And soon, I suspect, to make it stretch."

He considers further. "Perhaps Romain will make a gift of a few bottles. Have you had his wine?"

The dwarven child is a stark contrast to the younger elf. Filthy and impossibly small, dark curls matted and the brand on her cheek still a livid red. She huddles in on herself as if to take up even less space than she already does, but still nods in agreement with her elf counterpart and beckons them to follow.

Sawbones frowns slightly, "I thought I was a bit taller at that age..." Then she tips her head up (and up and up and up) to glance between the Provost and the elf spirit, "It's interesting though. Do you suppose they're accurate depictions or merely imprinted off our perceptions of ourselves?"

He shrugs, noncommittal.

"Everything seems different to a child's eyes."

He would look more closely at himself, examine the robe, the ornamentation if he thought it mattered. As it is, the child is just a spirit mimicking his own memories, and he is disinclined to consider the paradox of that very far.

"If she is more familiar with you yourself, then she has been watching you closely for some time."

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EVENT ↠ THE DRIFTING ROADS

thranduil

i. INNER CHILD TIME

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reconciliation artists

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