faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ The Darkest Realms of Dream, Part II

WHO: Open
WHAT: A dreamy conclusion.
WHEN: Wintermarch 20, 9:47
WHERE: The Fade, Kirkwall
NOTES: Please use content warnings in your comment subject lines as appropriate.

THE JOURNEY

The pull to Skyhold becomes undeniable. Whatever justification is necessary to get people onto the road the dream makes real, whether that's planting an idea in their head or having a message arrive drawing them to the area or having them wake up and find themselves in an onion cart halfway up the mountain. The dream will do its best to smooth over the gaps between conflicting stories and the strangeness of everyone heading that way at once until they're all well underway.

At first, the journey seems normal (in the context of the dreamworld they're in), with the sort of mundane dangers faced by all travelers: wild animals, bad weather, brigands, and in the future where Corypheus has won, enemy patrols. But as they get nearer to the mountains, the trip grows more dangerous. More wild animals—and perhaps now they're infected with red lyrium or Fade-touched. More bad weather, perhaps almost supernaturally so. More enemy forces hunting them, ambushing them, barring the way up into the Frostbacks.

As they get into the mountains the opposition to their journey will become increasingly improbable. Hordes of beasts, entire enemy brigades that have no reason to be where they are, a necromancer coincidentally located atop an ancient cemetery hidden beneath the ice, a rift spontaneously opening to spew demons in their path, darkspawn clawing up out of the ground, a random Qun attack thousands of miles from their front, a dragon appearing out of nowhere. More and more, it will become obvious that things are not what they seem, and that something—some larger force—is trying to prevent them from reaching Skyhold.

HAVEN

No matter where people came from or when they left, they will all arrive on the road into the mountains at roughly the same time. Not precisely, but near enough that they'll begin to encounter others making the same journey. And whether they are attempting to reach Skyhold from the East or the West, they'll find themselves in the ruins of Haven first, converging with the entire group. In the world where the Inquisitor defeated Corypheus, the village is home to a monument to those who were lost when Corypheus' forces first attacked, with evidence of a steady stream of recent pilgrimages—though presently no pilgrims—to pay their respects. In the world where Corypheus dominates, a lifesize dragon has been constructed from bones, some of them human, to stand triumphant over the ruins.

Once they press past this point, taking much the same route once used to lead Haven's refugees to Skyhold, the dreams will begin to unravel. The two dreamworlds may begin to overlap and merge in confusing ways that fuel awareness that the dreams are dreams. People from one dream may step into the woods to forage and encounter people from the other dream there to do the same thing. A person who has experienced both dreams may find that they begin to bleed together, leaving them certain of one history in one moment and of another the next, and increasingly unsure about which of their conflicting sets of memories—if either—is real.* The gaps in memories will also become increasingly apparent, as will the strange coincidence of all of them heading to Skyhold at once for very different reasons.

As people gain awareness that they are in a dream, they may find that they gain more control over the dreamworld. Non-mages may find themselves capable of impossible feats, like willing a storm into being to push enemies back, or speaking to animals to learn the enemy's movements. Mages may find that the normal boundaries on magic have been stretched, and spells that might once have been beyond their power no longer are. Their newfound capabilities do have limits, though: their enemies grow in strength to match them and cannot simply be wished away, and the major threats that more and more clog their path are still too strong to be beaten by any one person alone.

The last leg of the journey up to Skyhold will be the most difficult yet, as difficult as it has ever been. The paths are even steeper and rockier than anyone remembers, in places appearing as if they've been deliberately heaved about and strewn with boulders in an attempt to narrow the way. Surely so much of the road wasn't treacherous goat paths along the edge of precipitous drops before? And if that wasn't enough, while the enemy forces have receded here there comes in their wake a blizzard of tremendous strength, clouds blotting out the sun, the way lit only by the occasional crack of lightning. Snow lashes the rocks and wind screams through the passes, ice slicking every stone, as if nature itself is trying to throw them from the mountain. While it might normally be wisest to hunker down, they will all somehow know that this is not a storm that can be waited out and the only course is to press onward through it to the top.

OOC | * Characters from one dreamworld won't meet the other version of themselves face to face. There's only one consciousness in the dream per person, in one 'body'. They may switch back and forth between dream versions, or lose one version entirely, or begin to muddle their memories and personalities together, or drop them both when they become fully aware of the fact that they're dreaming, but the two versions will never coexist as separate entities at the same moment.

SKYHOLD

They will know when they've reached their destination because just as suddenly as it began, the storm ceases. The tranquility is as abrupt as walking through a door: one moment they are in the howling heart of the blizzard, and in the next step they are beyond it. The air is cold but still, the sky clouded but calm, the path across the great bridge to the main gate clear of snow.

Skyhold would be a striking sight at any time, perched atop its peak against a backdrop of stark white mountaintops, but in these dreams, it's ethereal. The stones have a faint luminescence, like a smooth pond bathed in moonlight, that makes it stand out clearly against the night sky. No windows or braziers are lit, and the valley around it is still. The walls are unguarded and the portcullis open in an invitation they can't bring themselves to refuse.

As they approach, they'll find themselves able to call on memories from both dreamworlds at once—while the gaps in their memories of the years prior to the last month grow. And memories of the true world, one where it's Wintermarch 9:47, may begin to reemerge and solidify, no longer a future that will never arise nor a past that's been left far behind them. By the time they reach the Great Hall, yesterday may feel like as many as three different days, each memory as clear and vivid as the others.

Once inside the walls, the castle grows still more dreamlike. A great tree grows out of the far corner where the War Room ought to be, its massive trunk somehow coexisting with the walls around it, its canopy broad enough to stretch into the Great Hall. The building's form doesn't seem wholly fixed in time—one moment it will appear to be the Skyhold of the Inquisition, in another, one might instead see a glimpse of the ruin it was before the Inquisition arrived, or a bare mountain peak with only a few foundation stones laid, or even an ancient elven temple built around that great tree. There are remnants too of those who have lived and work here in ages past: a flicker of movement in the corner of an eye might be the ghostly shape of an ancient elf or a dwarf lord or a Fereldan mason, or even someone in Inquisition uniform. Attempts to interact with these apparitions will fail, as they continue on about their routines, incorporeal and unaware, vanishing again as soon as they're out of sight.

The only exception is a spirit in the Great Hall, waiting for them.

AFTERMATH

When they wake in the Gallows, it is Wintermarch 21, 9:47, and nothing in the world—outside their own heads—has fundamentally changed from when they went to sleep.

OOC | It will feel like a month has passed at most, similar to how rifters wake up from their canon updates. They will only remember that month-long span of the dream itself, not the years of history that led up to that point. Essentially, they may wake up from the dream and remember "so back when the Inquisition fell I turned assassin and killed a bunch of people," but they'll only be remembering that in the dream this fact was true; they won't remember a years-long period in which they became an assassin, the assassin skills they supposedly learned, or the act of killing those people.

As is the manner of dreams, memories may be fuzzy or disjointed, and some things may stick in the mind more clearly and vividly than others. Anyone who interacts with the Herald spirit (or witnesses others doing so) will find these memories particularly clear and strong.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I've eaten," she says absently. Then, after another sip of tea as if they are discussing the weather (which is, to be fair, uncharacteristically interesting lately)— "He tried to kill us. Myself and Mister Stark."

"Of course he did." It's said with some measure of grim acceptance. She's always half expected Riftwatch to turn out to be more like the Carta, so that at least made some sense. "You have any idea why he'd try a sun blind thing like that?"

"Were I to hazard a guess, I would say it due to the work we were doing for the Venatori. But he did seem remarkably determined."

She pauses. With the cup wrapped in both her hands, she looks to Sawbones. "Is he here, do you know? Mister Rutyer."

"Why were you- No, you were captured, you said as much." Sawbones gives up all pretense for a moment and buries her face in her hands. She does not scream. Because all of this is a stupid mess. But she does groan. Then she rubs her face and looks up.

"Haven't seen 'im. Or if I have, I didn't know it was him," she says, then narrows her eyes, "Don't go getting any revenge killing ideas in your head."

Which warrants a sharp look in return, equal parts alarm and offense from over the edge of that cup.

"I have no intention of doing so, I assure you. I merely wonder if I should be in the market of acquiring a knife for under my pillow."

A pillow. Funny. Imagine that.

"What concerns me more is the nature of our predicament here together. I thought dwarves all but immune to the touch of the Fade. And so something has gone very wrong with the Veil indeed."

Sawbones hums. "I don't think you'll have to worry about him. Feels like whatever has been playing out is coming to a head, reckon we'll have other things to worry about soon enough."

At the mention of the Fade and her own presence, she scowls and flops down irritably next to Wysteria. "We're supposed to be, but this's happened before. It was different. There were more... I don't know. More individual dreams crashing into each other." She aims her scowl at the sky, "All I could get from researching it is some spirit was probably at work. It could be whatever managed to bridge a connection the last time is at work here too."

"The event in the Gallows," she affirms as if turning to a shared page on a book. "Did you have pieces of your...thoughts, I suppose, manifest then too?"

Someone should have taken a record of those happenings. Maybe someone had, but if so then had she read them? She'd made her own notes, but what good does watching echoes of unrecognizable things do her now? It would have been prudent to take a survey. To have the whole account written down.

"Along those lines, yes." She wrestles with it a bit, trying to recall pieces of the dream within the dream she's in now. Which is very stressful when one is accustomed to having nothing to do with dreaming to begin with. "If I recall correctly, we were mostly separated in our dreams. They were more tailored to our... expectations? Desires, perhaps? I remember a great deal of walking."

Which is unhelpful. She sighs and rubs her forehead, her thoughts running the same route as Wysteria's: "I made notes, but I don't know if they'd help even if I had access to them here. This feels more like I've walked into the middle of something, rather than a world that's been manifested."

"And that's what you think this is now. That this is all a dream, every part of it, and that even as we speak here we are all safe in our beds in Kirkwall."

It doesn't sound like a question, but of course it is one. The suggestion is such a lovely one, yet seems so impossible that she can't help but interrogate it. Never mind the clarity with which she can imagine herself, five years ago, sitting with her legs tucked under her blankets while she brushed and braided her hair for the evening. She had done that nearly every evening all her life. It would be easy, Wysteria thinks, to simply pretend the imagine was a strangely familiar one.

She gives Wysteria a studying look. "I know you. But you've never been to the Orlesian hamlet where I've been delivering babies the past three years. And I can't recall a single detail from any of those deliveries, but I know for a fact there's a brewer in Kirkwall whose wife I attended had six. Four girls and two boys, about twenty minutes between the first and the second, their cook helped attend."

"So," she says, with finality, "This is a dream. But I won't tell you we're safe, because I'm a dwarf and I'm not supposed to dream in the first place.
So someone very powerful is fucking about."

Wysteria doesn't hm or make any other skeptical noise. She does however pause for a moment of contemplative silence - quietly helping herself to a few more sips of tea which are so pleasantly warm that one might, for just a moment, forget the piercing cold otherwise all about them. And is that not by some measure more or less the same thing from a person who ordinarily has so very much to say?

Maybe that is true. Maybe it is as simple as the fact that they are dreaming. Or maybe something has happened to cause the part of the Fade which makes Rifters (or brings them here, or reproduces versions of them, or--) to slip free into the world. How would they know?

By reaching Skyhold, one assumes.

"Let us hope it's so simple as all that then," she says at last, electing to do so with every appearance of good cheer. "I for one would be delighted to wake up to no greater complication than where I might procure a lovely fresh egg for breakfast."

There's nothing about this that's simple. Sawbones doesn't say so. Her bedside manner might be brusque at the best of times, but you don't tell a dead man he's dying. She hopes it won't be quite that dire. She suspects it might be.

"Well, you'll have to make due with soup for now," she says instead, "Even if this is a dream, no sense trying to climb a mountain on an empty stomach."

Her laugh is a bright, bell-like chime. It isn't wholly untinged by the quiet, persistent concern which lives behind her ribs, but what does it matter? The effort to laugh should count for something. Or she decides it should, and so it does. Isn't that how the world works now?

"I suppose that will do for now, yes."

MOD PLOT ↠ The Darkest Realms of Dream, Part II

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