MOD PLOT ↠ The Darkest Realms of Dream, Part II

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[heirring]

Luckily - if such a word can be used for repeat mistakes reaping repeat consequences - , she has done this song and dance once already. The collision occurs, but the papers and books in Wysteria's possession (significantly multiplied now that she is up the stairs rather than rushing down them) remain so.

"For Maker's sake. Twice in one day--" is not precisely 'Why thank you for catching me before I bounced all the way down the Mage Tower steps', but it certainly answers the question. Yes, she'll survive.

And then a light catches in her eye as Wysteria fixes the exact identity of her next victim.

"You. Oh, what a turn of good fortune this is Mister Stevens! You're the perfect co-sponsor for this project."

[clawings]

"Me?" He asks almost comically, letting go of her in favor to point at his own chest. He hadn't realized that saying roughly five words would make him stand out so much, but then he remembers not everyone curses like him. Or looks like him. And he's probably the only Rifter who does both of those things in combination.

So. He gives her a little nod.

"What is the project? And what does being a co-sponsor entail, exactly?"

[heirring]

"The project is to take a record of everyone's experiences within the dream. You shared in it, yes? I saw you there."

In passing, at the very least. He had asked a question of the Herald's spirit, she is certain, though now that she makes some effort to think on it the details of the thing seem to slip through her fingers. In what order had the questions been asked? In which order had the answers been delivered? From who and to whom?

"It seems of the utmost importance to me that we note what can be noted now, while the memories are still as fresh and they can be. And myself and my colleagues have devised of a great many surveys. So much so that to submit another to the outfit is all but asking for derision. But were you, a somewhat unlikely collaborator if you don't mind me saying, to present the survey with me then we might impress upon our fellows the severity of the thing. We might describe it as a cross-division effort even."

[clawings]

Erik frowns just a little bit, but it's a thinky sort of frown as opposed to an angry one. He wants to ask her why him but he'd already asked that, he thinks, of someone recently and it's usually not the greatest indicator of what's actually going on.

Unless Wysteria Poppell is one of those brutally honest folks, which. Well. Seems feasible.

"Yeah, I was there. Alright." A nod. "What's your method, how are you recording this information? We knockin' on doors and leaving surveys or are we getting on the crystals or what?" He takes a breath. "I need to see the questions too, 'cuz if it's too much like that survey I got when I got here it's gonna put people off. No offense."

[heirring]

"Naturally you may see the questions--" is what she begins to say, an assurance so ready to hand that was likely on her mind before he even suggested it. Mention of the other paperwork however clearly derails her:

"Pardon? I will have you know that was an inquiry jointly developed between myself and Mister Fitz. It is designed to address--Oh," she tsks. "Nevermind it. A conversation for a different, less pressing hour. I had been considering the use of an anonymous drop box similar to the one the Seneschal uses for all of the outfit's complaints. Dreams are delicate things, you know, and everyone in the Gallows has such an irritatingly complicated relationship to the truth. Particularly when they are the kind they believe to be personal. I believe we would have better luck taking anonymous or at least very discreet accounts, collecting the data, and then presenting it for further review and discussion.

"But yes," Wysteria continues, with hardly a pause to suck down a fresh breath of air. "Soliciting answers to the surveys on the crystals seems the most effective way of fetching that information in the first place. And then everyone may make their complaints right away, and if we are fortunate one of the Division Heads will grow tired of the debate and simply make the thing compulsory."

[clawings]

All that talking in one breath? Is pretty impressive. Erik raises his eyebrows and nods along when she says that the earlier survey is a conversation best kept until later. He wonders if he should know who Mr. Fitz is. Beyond being here a few months, he knows relatively few people.

Either way, the sooner they talk to folks, the better.

"The box is a good idea, I think, but still getting on the crystal with it is a better one." Of course, folks were gonna complain, people always complained about having to fill shit out, but this was important. They needed the information. "That way people get to be as anonymous as they like with it."

[heirring]

One might think the stays might reduce a person's lung capacity someone. And yet--

Wysteria is nodding along, shifting the books from under one of her arms and into his; presumably an unspoken (or nearly so) 'Hold this, if you would be so kind,' is involved in the hand off so she might focus on shuffling through the great stack of papers held in her other hand.

"How excellent to know that we are already of such similar minds, Mister Stevens. We may all debate and argue publicly on the crystals and file all the vital information on paper. You really have no idea how sincerely I'm grateful for your good sense in this matter. Ah, ha. Here is the very rough list of questions which I drafted while in conversation with Mister Barrow. Review them, if you would?"

The relevant sheet of paper is passed along.

"Not here of course. Or immediately. It is quite early and I imagine we are all recovering from the whole affair to begin with. If you would only return your notes and additions to me by, say, the lunch hour? I hope, by the way, that your dream was not too unpleasant."

[clawings]

He takes the book easily and without complaint, shifting them back to her once she gives him the survey questions, scanning over them briefly before the paper gets folded up and put in a pocket.

"You want me to bring these to your office, then?" He nods. "I can do that." He's going to have to find something to busy himself with in the meantime, for sure, but he's sure he can figure that out. "Should I bring food too then or are you the kinda don't want to eat around all the paperwork?"

[heirring]

Her surprised laugh is a sudden thing, bright and crisp as a bell's chime. Her office. What a fundamentally hilarious series of words.

"No, no," she says, mastering her own amusement. "I've no objections whatsoever. In fact, let us meet in the dining hall and we may work on the thing over lunch directly. By rights this ought to belong to Project Felandaris, I imagine, and I wouldn't dare keep a desk there so long as Mister Stark is overseeing the project. I couldn't hope to keep anything to myself under such--"

And just as suddenly as the mirth had risen in her face, it evaporates. Standing there in the stairwell, with her assortment of papers and books, Wysteria goes abruptly very quiet and turns a mortified chalk white.

[clawings]

"Alright," Erik starts to say, but then she's looking so pale suddenly that he's worried something has happened, which has him immediately looking behind him to see if someone's crept up on them. No one has, so he turns his head back to Wysteria.

"We'll meet at lunch, don't worry about it. Go see to your friend." He's presuming that the mention of Stark is what brought that look on, which, is understandable. In the dream, from what Erik remembers, he wasn't looking too good.

[heirring]

It's a fine guess. It is the reasonable one, and far more generous than the truth (which is that Wysteria having just recalled the fact that she is in a dressing gown and robe, with her hair all unpinned, and so has managed to keep very little indeed to herself with or without Mister Stark's interference).

(Tony is fine. She has hardly given him any thought whatsoever since waking. And anyway, to study the shape of fear too closely gives it real dimension. It was a dream. To be concerned would be silly.)

No, it is only the ruffled robe and the cotton shift under it which are upsetting.

"Yes, of course," she says distantly, as if she has hardly heard him. And then Wysteria sharpens, stepping sideways to dodge and weave around him in the stairwell. "Yes, of course. At lunch, Mister Stevens. I am looking forward to it very much."

But first she must throw herself down onto the rug of her room and bemoan her own humiliation for a number of hours.