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

[hornswoggle]

"Fucking smoke," John hisses under his breath, the vehemence of the curse only half about the smoke itself. The pain makes itself known to him, one bloody palm falling to the slash slanting at an angle up across his chest. There is very little blood, but the pain comes washing forth now in the momentary beat of quiet.

"We can call it a draw, if you'd rather," John says, tone light in spite of gritted teeth, smoke burning his throat. The pain is good, a help. It sings in tandem with the blood flowing forth from his slashed palm. Marcus is not going to withdraw. John knows this.

He offers anyway. Just once more. Just in case there is a chance he doesn't have to go back to tell Petrana and Julius that he's killed this man.

[luaithre]

John speaks, and so Marcus knows where to aim.

The smoke whorls into a tunnel around the sudden force of primal magic missiled from one mage to another. Jagged stone, still trailing the green light of the Fade magic they were formed from, flung hard enough that it might unseat a rage demon.

And it parts, the ash and the smoke, so that Marcus can move through it. Having been hit with the full force of John's last strike, there is disappointingly little to show for it. His mouth is bloodied, cutting a trickle of red through smeared soot, some other cut and scrape seeping blood through his brow, but otherwise standing. Moving forwards, at a more considered pace, this time.

The staff wielded in his hand is almost a beacon, runes blazing red and white at the core of it, and faint reflections of runic inscription orbit around it as he brings it into both hands, preparing the next—apparently final, judging from his expression—attack.

[hornswoggle]

A decisive no, then.

Marcus makes his decision, and John responds in kinds. No dodging, not this time.

One bloody palm swings up; the rock shatters, but John isn't capable of deflecting the debris. His lifted arm shields his face, but the resulting crack of scattering stones will bruise at best, draw blood and break bone at worst. He won't know until later, when he's focusing on something other than what must be done to end this. The resulting chorus of pain funnels down into singular purpose, set against the slash in his chest, his bleeding palm. When he inhales, the lingering brimstone of the Fade fills his lungs.

There is nothing to this but John reaching out and pulling. The force of it cinches abruptly, blood-bought power slamming into Marcus like the a hammer falling onto an anvil, a ripple-crunch of impression rattling out from between them. It is painful and abrupt and final, unmistakable in it's intent.

[luaithre]

The heavy iron battlestaff drops. Where it sinks into snow, melts it, steam rises, but those angrily glowing symbols snuff out almost instantly.

Marcus also falls. Breath leaves him and does not come back in on the next gasp, knees hitting the ground as his hands claw for—whatever just happened, this internal injury, vice-like around his torso. Bone cracking, muscles seizing, but it should have been worse, much worse. He should probably be dead. Instead, the worst of the damage is soaked and transformed, and maybe Silver can sense it, the invisible and wild gathering and accumulation of power.

Nothing Marcus is doing consciously, half-collapsed in the snow and doing everything in his ability to resist the grasp of magic trying to snuff the life out of him, trying to crush him from the inside, unseeing in the pain of it. A hand claws into the ground.

The earth begins to shake. Old, defiant trees quiver, sending snow falling in crumbling sheets.

[ipseite]

How Petrana comes to be at precisely this place at precisely this moment—the details, like the rest of this dream, don't matter. What matters is that she is, the coat she had made out of Marcus's cloak making her a shimmering black smudge in the snowy landscape, blonde braids spilling out one side of its hood, gloved hands wrapped around a walking staff that has no further purpose than that. When she butts the end of it into the ground, there is no remarkable, magical reverb; it is only to steady herself as she takes in what's happening in front of her.

What is about to happen in front of her.

There is no magic in it when she says, “That's enough.”

[hornswoggle]

All the instincts that have seen John to this point, alive in spite of everything, rise up in immediate contradiction.

Marcus is still alive, which is no small feat. John is keenly aware that bodes very poorly for him. There is sweat beading at his temples, rising pain from the places the shattered rock had hit, and Marcus is stubbornly alive. Even without a clear understanding of what Marcus is capable of, John can sense the rejoinder gathering within the man slumped in the snow. The terrified leap of adrenaline in response is as clear a marker for the ferocity of what Marcus might summon as the rattle working it's way outward from him in the snow.

"Petrana—"

There are a great many things caught up in John's tone. The immediate, urgent concern for her being so close to them tangled with the exasperation of her order. His bloody hand flexes, reluctance clear on his face in spite of the strain. He can feel blood pounding in his head, the way the spell grasps and clamors for more. It can't be held forever.

Surely she's not unaware of the inherent danger in letting Marcus go.

[luaithre]

Blood spatters on the snow inches from his face on the next gasp out. Marcus has the presence of mind to fling an arm out to reach for his staff, fingers brushing metal, a few runic shapes brightening in response, but for the life of him he can't summon the strength to drag it close, or even wrap his hand around it.

It's then that Petrana's voice rings out, piercing the dull thump of his own heartbeat. She is a blur at the edges of his consciousness.

Animal rage-panic directs him to make use of this hesitation, exploit it, grasp deep into the depths of the earth and pull up seething violence. To do anything else invites doom. And yet, between the knives of Silver's magic lodged deep into him and the knowledge that Petrana stands to be swallowed up in all this as well—

Marcus groans, focus redirecting, hands now flat on the shaking ground. Control. The tremors are slow to die, but they do die.

[ipseite]

No one is being let go today. Enough, enough; she has had enough and will have an end of it. Now, here, and wherever else is necessary. It speaks perhaps to the fury behind those clipped syllables that she doesn't give John any sort of there, you see sort of look as it becomes apparent Marcus has obeyed just the same—no, her expression remains the same, stony thing, taking them in.

When the earth is still again, she walks past John—presses his arm with her hand, once, briefly, all the assurance that she has to give—to stop in front of Marcus and survey him with cool dispassion.

Somewhere in the back of her throat, the screaming claws its way towards voice. She curls her fingers about her walking staff, white knuckles hidden under thick fabric. She says, “I am tired of this, Marcus,” and then: “If you are quite finished, you will escort us safely the rest of the way to Skyhold. If you are not finished, you will go through me.”

It is not a threat. They all know it; if Marcus means to end this here and if he is prepared to kill her to do it, then the only thing that she can do is look him in the eye and bare her throat to the blade.

If.

[hornswoggle]

In the wake of Petrana's hand at his arm, the grinding pressure determinedly attempting to crack Marcus' ribs dissipates. It's done against all John's better judgement; Marcus still draws breath, and John is very aware of what had been gathering around them, what Marcus had grasped for in return. He is not so helpless.

Petrana is standing too close to him, but John knows better than to reach to pull her back.

There is nothing he can say that wouldn't diminish the effect of Petrana's words, so John remains silent for the moment. The snow crunches quietly beneath his boot as he maneuvers closer to her, close at hand in the event her gamble doesn't pay off.

[luaithre]

At first, Petrana could be forgiven for thinking that Marcus didn't even hear her; his head is down, still, even after Silver releases his spell. Gloved hands curled into fists, breaths coming wheezed and laboured.

Give him a second.

And a second is enough, in that he doesn't want to spend another one where he is. Marcus gets up, a process that is stiff and injured but determined. His staff will have to be left where it is for the time being, and when Marcus is on his feet, he find he can't quite draw his spine all the way up. Since she saw him last, he's changed some, and Silver can mark it too now that they aren't in active battle; the seaming of his scars are deeper than they were before, the result of re-opening, of an attempt at healing.

Ice-bright and now slightly reddened eyes first flick to John, a sort of accusation held there, before he steers his focus to Petrana. An immediate softening, ferocity pulled back from a more existential misery.

"Skyhold," he repeats.

[ipseite]

His survival was a near thing, she judges, taking in the state of him as he pulls himself as straight as he can manage and she measures the distance between what he can manage and what he ought to be able to.

“Skyhold,” she confirms, harder eyed than her cultivated softness would suggest her capable of. Even when she turns to Silver, then,

it doesn't look quite like an impassioned plea, ill-considered. There is enough of a pause before she speaks again that it would be difficult to think anything but that she had strongly considered saying none of it: “He will be no good to us in this state. I understand what I ask of you.”

And of Marcus, yanking a leash she hadn't recognized lay within her grasp at the last opportunity to do so.

[hornswoggle]

The knowledge of what's at stake if Marcus is allowed to live is being to solidify. John revealed something to him. Beyond the danger Marcus presents, what he's able to do if left unchecked (what he'd nearly managed, even half-dead at John's hand) all bear down on him as he holds Petrana's gaze.

There is a denial that almost, almost meets her request.

Instead, John sighs deeply and levers himself forward. His unmarked hand catches Petra's elbow, holding there briefly as he passes her. Moving highlights every single place the shattered rock debris struck him. He comes to a stop before Marcus, remembering the last time they'd stood face to face like this, the scent of smoke rising around them and Marcus' expression like steel in the near dark.

"Don't make her regret this."

There is no doubt in John's mind that without the element of surprise he'd have a far more difficult time getting the upper hand. But he's certainly willing to spill a good amount of his own blood to make good on this threat.

"Now, deep breath."

Which is more spite than helpful advice, knowing what he's done to Marcus. He reaches out his bloody palm to the center of Marcus' torso and dredges up a wash of prickling warmth that roots deep in Marcus' chest before rippling outward.

The reverse of what John had done to him is just as unpleasant as the initial clench of pressure. The snapping of bone back into place, fever-heat burning outwards as if to meld everything back into place, is more discomfort than balm. It's the best John can do. It's more than he wanted to do. And he may yet live to regret it.

[luaithre]

Everything feels like it's moving very fast. He has a distinct memory of trying to navigate a hill covered in powdered snow and frozen earth, the way a single slip will drag you down and tumble you into the control of gravity. He has slipped, at some point, and now there is no sense of choice in the direction being taken.

Petrana looks at him and then back at Silver, and Silver approaches.

To approach him and put a hand on him must feel a little like trying to offer a friendly pat to a wolf caught in a trap. Marcus forces himself to stand an inch straighter and stare down Silver with a certain kind of miserable hostility. There is a voice still that whispers to him that Silver could finish the job if he doesn't move now, doesn't act.

A diminishing voice. Less because he welcomes death and more because he believes the stupid bastard will actually do this thing that Petrana says. (He is not talking about himself, here, but what's the difference.)

Miserable hostility slants more sarcastic at John's advice. He does not take a deep breath.

But is forced to when that healing ache wraps back around his ribcage. Bone is forced back into alignment, fusing together, pain rushing out from point of contact. Pale blue eyes flash copper and there is another slight pulse of magical energy, a pull from the Fade, but nothing comes of it. A reflexive response to damage, to pain, which may explain something of how he survived at all.

Eventually, Marcus steps back, expression relaxing from the grimace it had tensed into. Gloved hand splaying against bruised but not broken ribs.

[ipseite]

That they both do, in fact, do as she says—despite their own instincts, inclination, better judgment—is a source of no small amount of relief. She had been less certain than she had wished to appear, although moreso than either of them probably would think wise if it were to be discussed further. Since it worked, of course, there's no need for that—

“It will fall upon me, if you betray us a second time,” she says, evenly. This isn't a belated realisation, but making explicit the precise nature of her lever. “I think you will agree that would be a grievous waste of your previous efforts. Were the two of you attempting to murder each other for a particular reason?”

This is an honest question. Is there something they need to immediately deal with, or just the inevitable collision of two men who'd been too sensible to strike earlier. She wishes to know, because the former might necessitate some action before they start off and set off again for the oversight.

[hornswoggle]

If John's mirrored retreat leaves him stood just slightly ahead of Petra, it's not worth remarking upon. He has the sense that Marcus will do nothing to risk her safety, but there are some risks John doesn't care to take. Accepting healing magic is a self-serving thing.

But the question—

The slanting, sidelong look John gives her somehow manages amusement. The exertion of the spell hasn't quite left him. Sweat is drying clammy at his nape, and his hand is tacky with fresh blood, and still, the question is almost funny.

"Marcus scared off a borrowed horse," is the answer John settles on, only marginally better than He tried to incinerate me.

In hindsight, it's hard to say whether or not they would have come to blows if Marcus had stayed his hand. Maybe it was inevitable, to a degree. John hasn't forgiven him for Petrana. That would have colored any discussion they'd attempted.

But past jokes: "It's nothing that we can't consider settled, so long as he doesn't make a second attempt."

[luaithre]

It seems right to cede that question to Silver. Marcus had struck first and so if anyone is to raise objection—

But he does not. There is a subtle tic to Marcus' jaw to the answer settled on, raking a look the other man's way as he addresses him through the woman who brought them this truce. Marcus forces himself to drop his hands to his sides, scouting out where his staff had fallen and is now lying in a pool of melted snow and churned earth.

Ribs only protest a little as he steps to the side and retrieves it, letting meltwater and mud drip off it as it may. He will go with them to Skyhold. So long as he doesn't betray them, again. So long as he doesn't strike out murderously a second time.

"I understand," he says, because it is all he can say.