Fade Rift Mods (
faderifting) wrote in
faderift2020-11-27 11:25 am
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
Entry tags:
- ! mod plot,
- alexandrie d'asgard,
- bastien,
- benedict quintus artemaeus,
- byerly rutyer,
- darras rivain,
- derrica,
- edgard,
- ellis,
- fifi mariette,
- gwenaëlle strange,
- isaac,
- james flint,
- john silver,
- julius,
- loxley,
- marcus rowntree,
- matthias,
- nell voss,
- obeisance barrow,
- petrana de cedoux,
- wysteria de foncé,
- yseult,
- { aenor dinadhal },
- { amos burton },
- { athessa },
- { benevenuta thevenet },
- { colin },
- { dorian pavus },
- { erik stevens },
- { fitcher },
- { james holden },
- { jaskier },
- { jone },
- { joselyn smythe },
- { ket perrino },
- { laura kint },
- { leander },
- { leo fitz },
- { madi },
- { marcoulf de ricart },
- { maud van klerk },
- { mhavos dalat },
- { nikos averesch },
- { richard dickerson },
- { romain de coucy },
- { sabine },
- { sidony veranas },
- { thranduil },
- { tony stark },
- { vanadi de vadarta },
- { vance digiorno }
MOD PLOT ↠ The Darkest Realms of Dream
WHO: Everyone
WHAT: Dreams of what could have been and what might be.
WHEN: Early Wintersend (January) in real time; 9:45 and 9:52 in dream time.
WHERE: Kirkwall, physically; dreams all over.
NOTES: See the OOC post for details.
WHAT: Dreams of what could have been and what might be.
WHEN: Early Wintersend (January) in real time; 9:45 and 9:52 in dream time.
WHERE: Kirkwall, physically; dreams all over.
NOTES: See the OOC post for details.

silas.
closed to jone, sabine and vance
He’s a lean, silent shade astride its back, hooded and cloaked black, at odds with the stocky grey beast clicking wet at its bit beneath him. Their breath mingles as it rises, steam heavy and thick after the long ride out. ]
She sees something.
[ Quiet.
A quarter-mile further down the road, a project is underway.
Feathers brush ghost-silent through skeletal branches overhead; loose snow dribbles through the purchase of curled talons, and sprinkles a patch of bare earth below. Thot the owl folds her wings and flattens her ears as she hunkers down to peek at their progress.
She is compact -- short in the wing, tufted, and coal black. Her eyes burn a luminous green -- slitted pupils swelling wide in the dark. Unnatural. ]
no subject
The gambeson under her armor does little to take the chill off. Hooded as she is, the general spikes Vints are so fond of outfitting their fighters in make an odd silhouette. She slumps forward, watching her perfect shadow in the snow, the shape of some abomination following its Rifter master. Cold breath smokes out from a darkly draped head.
Say what you will about selling out, it's bloody dramatic, ennit.]
What's she see, mate?
[The animals Si pulls up are a right horror, or would be, if they weren't on her side. As it is, she can't but feel something like pride puff up in her, at what Si's capable of making.
A bloody good mage, he is.]
no subject
Sabine is bent over a shovel, jamming it further down into dirt and ice and snow with a kick of her boot heel, metal scraping noisy against frozen earth. With this last heft, she surveys the holes they've managed to dig, every aching part of her making the argument that it's enough.
She tosses the shovel aside.
In the almost lightless pre-dawn, she is a far off memory to Silas of distinct mane of fiery curls, left to freely flutter as she's removed her cloak, too warm from the work. She makes a skinny figure, then, in murky forest-hue leathers and wool, hands gloved, face splotchy from exertion and the smarting chill. Deciding that yes, these holes are numerous enough and deep enough, she strides her way back towards the cart, gesturing for Vance to start passing her the earthen pots very carefully stowed there. ]
If these freeze before they get to kill anyone—
[ There is no end to that sentence, just a preemptively annoyed exhale. She will just have to personally fistfight the next Venatori supply wagon. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
closed to loxley
Other rooms are empty entirely: no books, no paintings, no furniture -- no pets to explain the weave of little pawprints over a dusty shelf.
In the bedroom, a lithe figure slithers over Silas’ turned shoulder to pat at his cheek with a velvet paw, pap pap pap, until he starts awake. A sharp intake of breath, and he vanishes Thot with a gesture. Silently, he flips back the ratty blanket to sit up, and slowly, he sets a foot to the floor, left hand brushed across the dagger at his back, while the right closes around another at his nightstand.
Everything is as he left it: the saddlebags, the satchel, the robe. The open door.
no subject
It's why Loxley has his hand on his sword's hilt when he appears in Richard's doorway.
And they see each other, because they can see in the dark; Loxley, impossibly here, a tall and striking greyed out silhouette where struggling light only just turns up the ochre-umber hues of his clothing, and eyes catch slightly gold as he widens them.
And let's out a sigh. Pure relief. He even leans in place on the frame.
no subject
*An undead corpse in its pajamas, with clean hair in its eyes, and a bottle of wine at its bedside.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
CW ?? murder
cw being murdered
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
https://i.imgur.com/SRzsoQv.jpg
a princess
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
closed to byerly
Roderick Ironwood is a gawky, road-worn sneak thief in dark leather armor and a traveling cloak, recently arrived in Denerim, and even more recently checked in at this brothel. His beard is creeping back in at a raw bristle of gingery stubble, darkest beneath the beak of his nose.
There is a non-zero temptation to mix business and pleasure; he has arrived earlier than agreed.
But there are other brothels in the city, and Byerly pries. So he’s paid off the promise of a good time, and stands alone beside a four poster bed in a private room perusing through an optimistically-planted copy of the Chant while he waits. The pages are a little stiff.
He is wearing gloves.
no subject
"Lover," Byerly greets the man, a dryness in his voice. But when he extends his hand to shake Silas', his grip is solid, and there's no mockery in his face.
"You're positively unrecognizable. Well done."
no subject
The read behind it is a little more intense, the blue of his eyes piercing in after evidence of rattled nerves, or ulterior motive.
“We’ll see if I make it out of Denerim alive.”
Satisfied that Byerly isn’t likely to be the direct perpetrator if he doesn’t, he opens the book again, and produces a pen from his belt, already set to begin scrawling data by memory.
“How goes it in the world of dashing heroism?”
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cover calendar with hand
closed to YOU.
Si isn't the kind of fighter that can take a swipe and live. Or maybe he can, but Jone doesn't wanna see that. She's seen what some of the really fucked up Venatori mages get, wounds that never heal or get worse, just kind of... linger.
All this to say, if they were a truly efficient fighting force, they wouldn't be themselves, and themselves are currently off trying to reach a contact in Southern Ferelden (redundant, ennit) without getting completely mauled.
Leaning against a bear's corpse, still warm, Jone calls out. "You can come out nowww..." Was he hiding? That's not the point. "Cos' I'm not finding you. Too much bloody effort. I'll scarper off in the dark, I will."
This is a complete lie, and they both know it.
closed to ME???
It depends on the type of bear, of course, and the athleticism of the victim.
Nearby in the night, Silas’ boots hit the dirt at a stumble as he drops out of the tree he was in. A scatter of broad leaves shakes loose to shower down with him, closely followed by rustling feathers and the bite of talons through leather, where a dusky black hawk catches in at his shoulder.
He is unscathed, dressed more the part of a rogue than a mage, which has served him well this particular evening -- a horned helmet would’ve gotten in the way of his arboreal scrambling.
“Are you hurt?”
He asks before he sets to checking himself over. Thot is already busy on the assist, ferreting a sweetgum ball out of his hood.
closed to thee.
"A bit," she says, downplaying it with a bit of a grin. She points to her leg, and the long gash running down the side of it. "Don't think it hit the-- what'd you call it, artillery."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
closed to fitcher
The letters she carries are short and to the point, folded and rolled neatly into a vial affixed to her collar. They consist of names and dates and locations. Occasionally they are ambitious enough to include times.
This one contains all of those things. It also includes a footnote: ]
I recently killed a trusted friend of mine for the second time.
How are you faring?
no subject
What purpose would it serve, save to endanger everyone involved?
This time however, having stamped her foot a half dozen times to chase the little beastie away while penning her reply, Fitcher sends along a copy of weather reports in Lydes (a place she had vacated some weeks prior) and trusts that it will say what she has no reason to write. Has he heard how a recently rebuilt section of the Imperial Highway leading to Halamshiral and along the coast toward The Frostbacks tragically collapsed while a contingent of Venatori soldiers happened to be traveling along it? She thought the weather was very fine for the work.
What the note actually says is,]
Well enough. No killings of erstwhile friends, twice over or otherwise. Though I would say more's the pity; I have heard some of them are having a lovely time of it.
Forgive the lack of specificity in the sprig I've sent along as an expression of my condolences. I believe a more particular blossom would need to be burned.
[It comes wrapped around a sprig of winter mint. All things which bloom where she is today are too indicative of the region.]
no subject
I’m glad to hear that you are well, and I thank you sincerely for your condolences.
As tensions escalate, I hope you won’t mind that I’ve directed Thot to seek shelter with you in the event of the unimaginable.
She does not shed, or eat, or leave waste.
She will prefer to sleep in your bed.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
closed to holden
He’ll be found on the road and fade-touched wolves will tear him apart if he hoofs it alone into the woods.
So when Silas spiders himself silently out of his bedroll in the night, it’s only for him to slink as far as the fire. Long legs folded up and elbows tucked in beneath the shawl wrap of a ratty blanket, he keeps his eyes fixed on cinders dribbling through the firewood, glowing orange chewing around the edges of ash white coals.
Eventually he lifts the blanket to hood up over his ears, but even as a firelit babushka he’s an easy man to identify in profile: the arch of his nose and the bristlebrush of his chin distinct at a distance.
no subject
Granted, it's hard to say how much sleep he's gotten in the past day, week, year, years. But in normal James Holden fashion, he'd started putting responsibilities on his own plate already, started looking for ways to help, and to keep busy. He tries — fails — to focus on the problems at hand, and not what's waiting for them back with the resistance.
(He'd said to Amos: I don't want to go back there just to have to do the same shit I was doing here. He's still not convinced he won't be.)
What happens is that he startles awake with a sharp breath, sits up and casts a look around until the memory of where he is settles back onto his bones. He drags a hand down his face, sighs, and remembers a jacket he'd left to warm by the fire. There may be a kit with some supplies for coffee too, if he's lucky.
But his approach tells him that he's unlucky; he stifles a yawn when he notices someone else by the fire, and the profile comes into focus as —
you know, that motherfucker.
He doesn't slow. He finds his jacket where he left it and pulls it on, starts to look for that hoped-for coffee (comes up snake eyes, but he'll at least try briefly before giving up).
Without actually looking at Silas, he says, "Couldn't sleep?"
no subject
Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. Silas is much harder to read than he is to spot, and hadn’t turned to look to the sound of one of their number rising from the ranks. Even now, with Holden deep in the throes of whatever errand brought him here, he keeps his eyes on the fire.
“It’s harder to sleep soundly without the watch of my familiar.”
Now he looks up, pale eyes amber gold in the firelight, beneath his babushka blanket.
(no subject)
(no subject)
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Dc6kBOuXUAMQA-T.jpg
https://i.ytimg.com/vi/eTTqx94r8i0/maxresdefault.jpg
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
https://64.media.tumblr.com/440a7cee5d8e588f3d40da93c11d10a5/tumblr_nhgk1hGr8v1tweui5o1_250.gif
https://media3.giphy.com/media/KQtInHuMoci6A/200.gif
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
open to resistance camp
The ripple and lap of black slurry sucks at stilt legs far below; the woodwork clicks and creaks and groans -- white noise, after a while. Silky cloud cover has settled in low overhead. The days are grey and the nights are black.
It’s too cold for insects.
Silas’ new home is part of a collection of motley structures used for storage, isolated from the more robust real estate downwind, just long and wide enough for the nest of a careworn bedroll he’s unfurled to one side. There are no windows. A single doorway without a door opens to a rickety walkway, currently occupied by the resistance member on guard -- whoever that happens to be. He hasn’t checked.
A lamp hung at the door provides only enough light to ensure there’s nothing untoward happening within.
There isn’t.
no subject
It's almost as though he's forgotten what he's here for, which... difficult, considering everything but he has to refocus anyway. There's a covered container in his hands, filled with a rabbit and noodle soup, and two bowls underneath that, and a hunk of bread in his pocket. He sets these things out next to the bedroll before settling in on the floor, legs crossed and expression calm.
"Your name ain't actually Dick Richardson." That sounds like a joke, but at whose expense?
no subject
He is just not cut out for shack living.
“Dick Dickerson,” he corrects, helpfully, by way of a very late hello.
With it clear now that this is intended to be a shared dinner, Slias dog ears a page, and sets his book aside. As much as he might like to play aloof, a rumble in his gut betrays him.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
And who he is and who Silas is might have gotten around. But then, Loxley doesn't remember how. He doesn't remember making the decision to come. He just has.
He ducks into the doorway. The coat is the same as when Richard last saw him, cleaned of gore, but he's been given a warmer shirt and vest, a different set of trousers, cuffs stuffed into magic jumping boots. He is not armed, either. Not visibly. He had the foresight enough to imagine that attempting to stride in with a big dick-swinging sword would merit some questions.
In the dimness, near-golden eyes find the other man's easily.
"Cozy," Loxley says, immediately looking away, taking in the dimensions of Richard's current arrangement. Just as conversational; "Why the fuck are you here?"
no subject
Waiting.
Calculation clicks over the instant he’s crossed the threshold.
It’s easier to see in the austerity afforded him by darkvision -- dials twitching, numbers running without so much as a fidget from his spider’s nest on the floor. Measuring, balancing, only for his teeth to clip ahead of a flash of feline spite before any of it has time to settle:
“Athessa defeated me hand to hand on the road. Very bold.”
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw a little bit of corpse
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
After a moment in which the guard has gotten settled, the door creaks open as he leans to peer inside, lifting the lantern to get a look at the prisoner for the first time--
"ah, fuck," comes his quiet mutter.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)