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

[luaithre]

The barrier holds well, turning icy blasts into uncomfortably cold breezes, deflecting blunt force blows. At each absorption of damage, that light that glances off his clothing and flesh flickers, weaker every time.

Marcus is not minding it for now, only making use of every second earned from the dragon's distraction, the air full of its growls and shrieks as flaming sword scrapes along icy edges. The sharp edges of his staff begin to glow a faint superheated red, steam rising when flurries of snow strike metal.

Up ahead, as he holds it off, Holden feels that same tingle of the Barrier being renewed.

It acts as warning, where the jolt of the earth beneath him might be too late. Paces back, Marcus hefts his staff, turning it in his hands, baring his teeth as he brings it down again blade first, thick black smoke trailing along the movement, and as soon as he strikes the ground

the earth beneath the grounded dragon parts with a roar. Invisible heat and smoke rise in a rush, and following, a violent upwards eruption of glowing lava. The dragon throws its head back in a scream that is only pain, wing sheared away in a gust of steam, its bodily frame collapsing inwards, snow-flesh melting off ice-bones, its eyes rolling in its head as it collapses into the crevasse beneath it.

Marcus is down on a knee, breathing harder at this latest expenditure of power, smoke lifting off his shoulders and flurrying through the air.

[acreage]

The action blurs.

Later, in the waking world, he won't know how he kept an icy dragon distracted with little more than a sword. Just some vague impressions — moving around quickly, lopping off snow-toes, trying to make rents in its belly. A skillset he doesn't have, but has imagined from too many books about knights as a child.

But it's a good thing for the warning. Because he knows to throw himself out of the way as Marcus rips open the earth, dark smoke and bright molten stone melting the creature into so much running water. The air is thick with residual smoke and the echoes of its death cries when Holden stands, coughing into his sleeve.

(The sword is gone. He doesn't mark that.)

He's not very far from where Marcus kneels; it'd probably be smarter to take advantage of his apparent distraction and make a break for it.

But for some reason, he doesn't.

[luaithre]

Marcus stands, glancing down at himself; dirt and snow, mud and streaks of soot. It's not quite as comparable as a man in a nice three-piece suit having to crawl through the wilderness for an extended period of time—the panels of armoring, leather and metal both, aren't for show—but it is enough like that, compared to very many of the others around them.

And he looks up, ready to acknowledge James Holden, probably still standing there.

There he is.

Marcus stakes the blunt end of his staff against the ground so he might lean against it. He waves his free hand, a musical curling in of his fingers, and the smoke still lingering in the vicinity all cyclones to a vanishing point, leaving the cold air unpolluted.

(If he wished to, Holden could make a very fair go at killing him, as momentarily spent as he is. The sword's gone, but it could return, or perhaps he's brave enough to use his hands alone. The thought occurs to Marcus and passes him by like something distant, shrouded in fog.)

Absurdly, but quite seriously; "Are you injured?"

[acreage]

He could try to kill Marcus. He could be said to have some right to — after what feels like years, after doing filthy work under Marcus's orders, his threats. And it could make sense, to deprive the Venatori of a man — a mage — of his power and skill. Hasn't the resistance only recently acted on similar logic? He'd hated it, but he couldn't say he would never have done the same thing.

And yet, in this moment, the thought doesn't even occur to him.

Instead, he says, "Are you serious?"

And then he has to shake his head, because he's never known the man to say something he didn't mean. Of course he's serious, inexplicably.

"I'm fine," he says after a moment, "are you?"

[luaithre]

There is a phantom-like twinge of annoyance for Holden's insolence in the face of his question that Marcus can't quite defend against, can only instill a tolerance for after its been and gone. It perhaps shows on his expression at a micro level, a flattening of his stare across at the other man before a real answer comes.

He nods once, stiffly, although does look the other man up and down in case he is lying about being fine. If there is grievous injury, however, he can't see it from here.

"I don't remember you from Riftwatch."

[acreage]

"I'd only heard of you."

Now that the danger's passed — the danger besides the man in front of him — Jim's not inclined to offer to another hand up unless it seems particularly needed. Instead, he goes on,

"Derrica told me a little about you." And, with a faint hint of amusement, "And how unhappy Sister Sara would be if she knew you weren't wearing a scarf."

[luaithre]

Marcus has stood, at least, and rested his weight on his staff. As strength returns, he depends on it less, a subtle shift that straightens his posture and squares his shoulders.

Don't worry about whether to worry about him, Jim.

And his manner shifts, from steely neutrality to something else. A subtle thawing, a flickered blink. His mouth turns down, more regret than scowl, and his attention dips somewhere vague between them. Whatever feeling that Holden has unexpectedly evoked, Marcus wills it to pass him by rather than burrow in. (And amusement, too. How silly.)

"How endearing," he says, not very bitterly, no sneering. He imagines what Derrica would say of him now.

Beyond them, spilled lava has quickly formed a crust, like dark veins in the snow.

"How did you free yourself?"

[acreage]

The feeling in Marcus does not, in fact, pass Holden by. But neither does he know what to make of it, besides the growing sense of difference between Marcus now, and Marcus the last time they spoke. He sets his arms akimbo as he takes in the flicker of emotion, the reaction, the lack of ice-cold.

He remembers a futile argument over a town too like home; he remembers Petra's warning for his mistake; he remembers the dark, nightmare room with Isaac. Interconnected consequences of his actions, he'd thought, cracks in his cover spiderwebbing from the moment he chose to defy Marcus Rowntree.

He raises an eyebrow, and he says, "Going to drag me back?"

If Marcus doesn't already know where Richard's loyalties lie, Holden isn't going to be the one to tell him. And this is a more important question, anyway — where Marcus's loyalties lie.

[luaithre]

"No," is blandly anti-climactic.

No, he is not going to drag Holden back. Perhaps better socialised twice-turncoats would feel the need to infuse that declaration with some passion, maybe append on some form of promise, a renouncement, anything. Maybe they'd get offended, angry, shamed.

None of that comes to him. "That would be absurd," Marcus adds, you know, for the record. Imagine, marching this rifter back down the Frostbacks at staff-point. He suspects the strange obstacles that at once seemed to chase him here as well as try to hinder his journey would probably part for them, in the doing. The universe feels malleable, that way.

The expectant silence that follows demands an answer to the question he'd posed.

[acreage]

"Glad we're in agreement on that."

Absurd is a fucking understatement, but it's true enough. Imagine, Marcus going through the trouble of recapturing him now, after all this time, after, bizarrely, helping him defeat a magical dragon. They could go back to a fortress that doesn't exist, inhabited by Venatori who, by and large, may not even be real.

(And some, like Marcus, who definitely are. If there's a brief shiver down his spine, well. It's cold.)

And the silence stretches, and he realizes, after a beat, the reason for it. His other eyebrow joins the first, high on his forehead, and he frowns. Speaking of absurd.

"Then I don't see how it's your goddamned business. What are you doing up here?"

[luaithre]

In the subtleties of Marcus' emoting, it's amusement that makes its fleeting passage through. He supposes the rifter has a point.

He brushes some dirt and snow off his sleeve, the pressure of his attention letting up. Less precious about answering questions, evidently, he says, "Madame de Cedoux requested I help escort her company to Skyhold," and is extremely dry in tone. He is not lying, but as long as we are dealing in absurdities.

"We're dreaming," he adds, an eyebrow raising. "And I don't doubt you'd have responded very differently a moment ago if part of you weren't conscious to that."

[acreage]

Even as he helped me, he wanted to—to justify himself to me. Perhaps to have my absolution.

Maybe it doesn't surprise him that Marcus is helping Petrana, that she asked him for it. Maybe he should doubt Marcus because, yeah, that does sound ridiculous; but he can feel the ring of truth to it.

Still, he observes: "She's better to you than you deserve."

And maybe that isn't fair, because he knows nothing of Marcus outside of the dream. But he can't help saying so, and he doesn't find himself caring much about fairness in the moment.

"I know," sounds more resigned than anything else, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to start liking you all of a sudden."

[luaithre]

This time, there aren't little microexpressions to chase, save for the shuttering itself, the closure and concealment. Holden has probably seen it before in him, stoicism slamming into place as efficient as a closed book.

The wind that flows into the mountain range and crashes invisibly against it lashes at their clothes and hair, smarts their skin, in the weighty pause that follows.

Then, "I've never had need of you to like me," is stated in the flat way of someone who has the distinct impression he has spent too many words on this conversation already. And yet, whatever part of him has twisted into the shape this dream has required of him, bids him to add, "You followed orders just the same."

He begins to move. Towards Holden, but only because he is in the way, his trajectory making it clear he intends to continue past him.

[acreage]

Only a moment ago, they'd both agreed that this is a dream. There's no reason, then, for the withdrawal of Marcus's emotions to be so familiar, nor for the chill to pull at his scarf and jacket, raise goosebumps on his skin. There's no reason for what Marcus says to sting, either. But unlike the last time he heard something like this, there's no flicker across his expression, no bleed of remorse.

Instead, he moves to let Marcus pass. But not without saying, maybe surprisingly levelly,

"I carry my share of blame." Things he'll remember, even after waking. "And so do you."