Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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faderift2021-01-19 10:45 pm
faderifting) wrote in faderift2021-01-19 10:45 pm
Entry tags:
- ! mod plot,
- bastien,
- benedict quintus artemaeus,
- byerly rutyer,
- derrica,
- edgard,
- ellis,
- isaac,
- james flint,
- john silver,
- julius,
- marcus rowntree,
- obeisance barrow,
- petrana de cedoux,
- val de foncé,
- wysteria de foncé,
- { colin },
- { dorian pavus },
- { erik stevens },
- { james holden },
- { joselyn smythe },
- { laura kint },
- { mado },
- { richard dickerson },
- { sister sara sawbones },
- { thranduil },
- { tony stark },
- { vance digiorno }
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.
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.
miriam.
I. THE JOURNEY - doooo you want to raise some corpses - group thread, pile on in
They'd been crossing at the very fringe of some abandoned village, the snowed in ruins of old stone houses and the shells of unused out-buildings turned quiet shadows in the dusky twilight--a small band of resistance scouts, tasked with marking the way for the main body following after them. And then, all at once, six Venatori agents had come spilling from the treeline, across what must be a snowed over meadow and into the crossing.
The first few have been dispensed with; the sixth, spellwork crackling off his barriers and sensing a change in the wind, is turning to run now. Should he reach the treeline--
"He'll betray our position! Don't let him slip away!"
Miriam Smythe (who has definitely been here the whole time, doing exactly this sort of work for the resistance based out of the Korcari Wilds), strikes the butt end of her hammer topped staff into the banked snow. The sweet shock tang of mana pulses; the world bends; the snow under the fleeing mage's feet snaps into a rigid sheet of ice. He skates, falls, and slides off the edge of the slab, striking feet first against some hard edge previously hidden by the snow.
Its a stone, muted lettering edges into face of the thing.
The Venatori mage drives his hand down through the snow and in moments, the frozen ground is buckling beside him as a corpse begins to pry itself free of its weather-shallowed grave. A moment later, a half dozen other spots on the field begin to rise as well.
II. CLOSE QUARTERS
Regardless of the state of the world outside, one thing at least is true: it's bitter cold, snow and ice sleeting down in great impenetrable sheets. Luckily, they're not out in it.
The cave shelter has been cut straight out of a lump of snow. There's no fire lit inside it, but the quarters are close enough and it's been formed in such a way that the raised ledges for working and sleeping trap a surprising amount of warmth and the colder air is sucked down and away. Beyond the tunnel mouth of the shelter, a wind is whistling.
Miriam, wearing her heavy coat on her lap as a blanket in deference to the surprisingly comfortable temperature of the constructed cave, is shifting through her kit in hopes of unearthing... something.
"You haven't a needle or thread on you by any chance?"
@edgard
Miriam stands guard for ten minutes, her muffler pulled high and her cap yanked low. She knows because she counts the seconds, and then forces herself to keep counting for twice the time it seems necessary. And then, when she's reached that arbitrary marker, she undoes the cinched tight canvas ties and ducks into the darkness of the tent beyond.
There's just one form there. Miriam, stooping in the low space, kicks it with her toe.
"Wake up."
Edgard loves desserts, so delicious
He catches his breath and then, "So, we're kicking the prisoners now, eh? At least wait until I'm awake."
puts thumb over extra 's'
"We have five minutes. You can choose to follow where I lead, or you can stay put and continue on until we all grow tired of hauling you up the mountain. Were I you," she says, calm and patient. Not whispering, just steady. She's thought this through. "I would pick the first one. I doubt the second will carry on for much longer."
resists temptation to keep naming desserts
"Alright." He gestures toward the opening. "After you."
If it goes sideways, she won't be the first person he's clonked on the head lately.
no subject
Without so much as a brisk nod for confirmation, Miriam withdraws backwards out of the tent. Her staff with it's hammer end is fetched up; so too is a small pack snatched up and slung over her shoulder.
"Stay close to me. A half step ahead," is the sum of her explanation, and then they're off--cutting through the night, their path toward the edge of the encampment bright despite the waning moon. There is enough snow on the ground and in the air that even a slice of moonlight travels far. She is all confidence, and doesn't once glance back over her shoulder as they cut their way through the shifting wreckage of Haven. Somewhere out there in the night waits the dark smudge of a tree line.
no subject
The staff is the thing to keep an eye on, but her person is small and maybe he could sling it over his shoulder like that pack if it came down to it. But he is entirely without a weapon.
"Psst." He whispers, a thought occurring to him. "Want some help carrying that?" He is referring to her pack.
no subject
This she says without a punctuating glance in his direction, the bulk of her attention fixed straight ahead toward their destination beyond the edge of the camp. The ground underfoot is a combination of slush and mud and snow, and the air is damp in a way that suggests soon the heavy clouds overhead will begin dumping snow again.
no subject
"Just offering. It looks heavy."
A resigned expression lands on his face as he treks forward towards wherever their destination might be. That plan didn't work. He looks behind him at the camp as it gets further away and tries to think why anyone would lead him away.
no subject
There are lots of reasons to walk a prisoner to the edge of camp in the middle of the night. For example, putting him to death in the middle of the camp might cause a ruckus. At this late stage, with the odds stacked so heavily against them, it wouldn't exactly be good to morale to pause their progress for public executions. And maybe he still has friends who would take exception to drastic measures. It would be easier, wouldn't it, for everyone--if he were just to disappear quietly, forgotten in the snow packed woods.
Those would be excellent guesses, particularly at the hands of Miriam Smythe who does her duty so reliably.
The petite mage herself offers no explanation. She continues on, not hurried in her pace but awfully direct. She clearly knows where she's going and what she intends to do when she gets there.
no subject
He brings his bare fingers to his mouth, breathes on them a little and rubs them together while maintaining their steady pace. It is a long while of them traveling like this before he bites.
"Where are we going?"
ii.
It's only faintly mortifying. They're traveling in blistering cold, with some ways to go, and Ellis is distracted by what's been lost in the course of this journey. Maybe that minor slip of the tongue sticks in his head to divert his thoughts away from the absence of Tony, like focusing on dented armor instead of the wreck of injury beneath.
His coat is open at the throat, gloves over one knee, scarf dangling in loosened loops. His own pack is open between his calves, though Ellis can't think what he might have been after. It's just something to do with his hands, waiting for the weather to break. With a little direction, his hand dips back into the depths of his pack to draw out a neatly tied roll of hardened leather, passed to Miriam without ceremony.
"Here," seems to be almost all that will be said, before he tacks on, "It's a bit thick for delicate work, but it'll be enough to hold you over until we get somewhere with a better kit."
no subject
(She'd answered to her sister's name, that second time: a patient turn while bowing against the weather. It's not his fault. Not really.)
"Hardly the time or place to be precious."
Her pack is cinched shut and set aside, traded in favor of his kit. The coat on her lap, Miriam turns this way and that until she unearths the tear. It's a miracle the slice in the side of it, put there by a Venatori spear hurtling at speed, hadn't scored a chunk out of her in the process. It should have. Miriam sticks her fingers through the gash, wiggles them, and shoots Ellis a sidelong look.
'Weird day.'
no subject
"Aye," he says, in answer to the unspoken sentiment, to what their position necessitates.
It's a strange thing to catch sight of her from the corner of his eye. Old instinct expects Isaac any moment, because he'd understood Joselyn and Isaac a pair, begrudging at the early hour and with some marginal improvement with a knife between them. But Miriam holds herself just differently enough that the memory doesn't hold up.
They are miles and years from the point where such a thing could be true, anyway.
"I've a blanket here, if you've need for it," is what he dredges up, more out of the sense that someone should be talking. (Richard's prompting paying off, in some very minor respect.)
no subject
A length of the leather cord is unwound with a patient rotation of the wrist. She's quiet for a series of moments as she lays out the tear and bends forward over the work, dark unbound hair draping forward about the task like a curtain. It isn't until she's begun the finnicky work of poking holes into the fabric and feeding the cording through, cinching each loop of the lacing tight to form an especially ugly suture, that she says anything.
"Is it cold in the Deep Roads? I've always wondered."
Her glance in his direction through the fall of her hair is brief but frank.
googles "deep roads + temperature"
The invocation of the Deep Roads, though—
"We're spared blizzards," Ellis says, some beat of humor fighting it's way into his voice in spite of everything, how far off his own reactions feel. "But whether or not it's worth a trade depends on how well you do in the dark."
Whether or not he'd prefer to be there over here is a more complicated thing to field than this conversation warrants.
no subject
It's a good thing the sheet of her hair is in the way; she's getting away with a real hack job on the poor coat - though whether there's really much of an alternative given the kit to hand may be worth debate.
"The dark I don't mind." Two little girls stand in it with a single lit candle on a plate between them. Somewhere in the wet eye of the night waits the blacker tree line. I dare you, one of them says. "But when it's still? Gloomy."
no subject
"Not a breeze. Drafts, sometimes, depending on where you are, and how deep."
It's a tricky thing to answer. The stillness of the place had always been a balm for Ellis.
"You get used to it," is the diplomatic addition. "It can be beautiful. There are ruins, but you can see what was there once. It's worth seeing."