faderift | [ OPEN | PLAYER PLOT ] This is how it feels to take a fall

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[ OPEN | PLAYER PLOT ] This is how it feels to take a fall

WHO: Tiffany, Barrow, Astarion and...you??
WHAT: an assignment gone terribly wrong
WHEN: week 5, segueing into week 6 of the plot, just after dragon tracking concluded with a terrible, literal bang
WHERE: the most silent portion of the Silent Plains, nearer to Hasmal, and not far from Tevinter's very nicely constructed base
NOTES: cw for injury, darkness, being stranded, absolute idiocy | OOC POST: here

Previously: having successfully scouted Primus Taxarchis’ base in the Silent Plains, Tiffany, Barrow and Astarion make an unsuccessful escape under the fully alerted watch of the base’s active forces— provoking a near lethal counter attack that sees them crash landing not far away, and forcing the stranded trio to desperately petition for help.

That’s where you come in.

The ravine runs like a crooked gash throughout desert sands, deep and layered, sloping inward at an angle too steep to safely (or reliably) climb. Easy to spot from above, not as easy to get into without breaking an ankle or an arm, and impossible to freely clamber out of once inside: the stone is brittle and flaking to the touch, lean too much on it, and you’ll drop right to the earth along with it.

The caverns connected to it are far more accessible— the only downside is they’re labyrinthine in their knotted nature: it’s easy to reach an end too narrow to be traversed, or so broad that it loops back on where you’ve already been, descending downward in steeper layers, becoming a near honeycombed network at points.

Of course, you also might not be alone in the dark. This territory isn’t as unclaimed as appearances might otherwise suggest, factoring in proximity to the base the three had been previously scouting. Luckily no overwhelming force has been sent to give chase and comb the desert in pursuit, but that’s not to say there aren’t still eyes to be found in the depths of lightless pathways. Armor-clad agents working for the exact same reasons you are, their noses to the trail.

Well. Not the exact same reasons.

The temperature is freezing cold at night, and in the fuller depths of the caverns where light doesn’t reach, that’s a near consistent constant. Firelight might draw attention, for better or worse. Magic, too, and— despite earning the label of Silent— there is wildlife occasionally to be found. Proof of life’s perseverance even in the harshes of places, fleeting and skittish.

Or dangerous.

Whatever approach is taken, one thing is clear throughout: none of this is going to be easy.

[ooc notes:

-The trio rest at the very bottom of those lightless depths where they’d initially fallen, in varying states of wellness and action.

-they’re lacking in supplies, warmth, healing, mounts, protection, a way out— you name it they need it.

-time is a given: none of this will go quickly, so feel free to handwave or assume anything you need to to make your dream threads come true.

-this timeline wise takes place at the end of week five segueing into week 6, when Riftwatch forces are free to head home if they care to, but given that this is technically hostile territory between Primus Taxarchis’ base and Hasmal, it’s probably going to be a deliberate choice if your characters decide to come here.

-pls just don’t do anything to officially alert the nearby base in full, that would be Bad— and super difficult to do from a hole in the ground but mostly just Bad. Otherwise chase your bliss and make your wildest spelunking/survival/heroic fantasies a reality.

-ooc post is here, for all your delving needs and details.]

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There is nothing beneath her hand now but newly-made scabbing. The remainder of blood is the only testament to the newness of the wounds, how recently blood flowed here. But she doesn't draw free of his grip, instead passing her free hand along the wounds to assess her achievement.

A smile warms her face, fingers patting lightly at his shoulder in acknowledgement. It's not really something that needs thanks.

"I've a potion for you," she tells him. "To make it easier for you to travel back."

It's not going to be a comfortable journey. But it will be the difference between unconsciousness and maybe death versus just having to be cautious and move slowly so as not to pull anything open.

She's already reaching for more bandages from her satchel, meaning to bind up his chest against the possibility of something pulling in the course of their flight back to Kirkwall.

The potion he’ll take as a promised offering. In fact, he wants to be sure it’ll truly be his to keep before he bothers adding, after a tentative pause:

“The others might need your help, too.”

He isn’t quite certain of their current state, and it isn’t a problem he’ll deeply concern himself with regardless of the fact that this is— in truth— his fault. Regardless even of the fact that they’d saved him, when it would've been easy to leave him there the moment he'd collapsed.

It was a mission, after all. The risk was always going to be there regardless.

A truth that Derrica would have said to Isaac, or Matthias, or Marcus, but will not say to Astarion: the bulk of her ability will always be spent on any member of Riftwatch that has not declared themselves a templar or seeker or Chantry devotee.

What she says instead—

"Adrasteia is here as well. She might be a more capable healer than I am, and between us we can manage the others, if she hasn't already."

With the wounds more or less dealt with, Derrica's hands shift to run over the lingering ice on the leather.

"We can shake this out. It'll help."

He watches her for a beat longer, peering up at her in a way that seems deliberate. Searching. As though he might somehow have caught scent of something in the air, and now looks to her to grasp just what might be out of place—

And then his hold on her abates, chilled fingers smoothing across her wrist to settle along the edges of that frigid leather. His head is swimming, after all. Hard to blame him for imagining the shadow of a thought where it might not be.

"...or you could warm it away yourself. Body heat and all."

~~You wouldn't hit the man you've just healed, right?~~

"Just a thought."

"I'm glad to hear you're feeling better," Derrica answers. Relieved amusement is closer at hand than any kind of censure. Her fingers pat over his chest lightly, before she turns to draw the potion from her satchel.

It's not until she turns back to him that she directs a second, assessing look, hands coming to her lap with the potion cradled between them.

"Can you sit up?" she asks again, though the little wrinkle of worry has returned to her brow. Has she done enough? If it still pains him to sit up, she'll have to try something else, rather than leave it all for the potion to sort out.

“Can’t believe you’re going to make me work for this.” Astarion manages to puff in jeering protest, attempting to draw out a few more seconds of uselessness before he delves into the realm of effort and all the discomfort it’ll no doubt bring.

“Cruelty becomes you.”

Toothless, like everything else. The gentle gnawing of a hand in dissent without breaking skin when a beast isn’t keen on instruction.

From there he turns away from the sight of her delicate features, exhaling low and sharp— drawing in yet another breath before rising with a tepid grimace, betrayed to the bone by his body and some menacing mixture of exhaustion and cold and the faintly numbed pressure of bandaged wounds.

“...you know....you could’ve at least taken me out to dinner beforehand.”

He’s trying to joke. He’s failing.

—he’s very tired.

"Ask me again when we've made it back to Kirkwall," Derrica tells him, smile off-setting the persistent wrinkle of worry knitting at her brow. As he moves, her hands shift across his shoulders, potion set on the ground at her hip. The intent is clear: ease off the leather, all the easier to beat the ice free of it before he puts it back on. There's little to do for the blood, but getting the last of the ice off him will have to do.

She has so little fire-based magic. More importantly, what little she does have isn't suited for such carefully controlled work.

Derrica is very, very gentle as she works the leather tunic free of one arm.

"I'm not the kind of girl that takes people to dinner," she says, tone managing to hit on teasing. "But I might consider it once you're back on your feet."

“Consideration.”

Said as though it's an unparalleled compliment, the edge of it blunted only by the way he stiffens when he leans to one side, putting the whole of his effort into pulling his arm free of the sleeve as she draws it in the opposite direction. A carefully coordinated arrangement.

And not nearly enough to shut him up.

“High honors.”

"I'm very particular," is not entirely true, but it serves for the moment.

Leather tunic set aside, Derrica's hands skim briskly down his back, seeking any opened wound.

"Do you think you could stand?" she asks, marginally more serious, as she sits back on her heels to try and peer into his face.

“Don’t— “

He hisses sharply, pulling away so quickly from the grazing press of her fingertips along his spine— the only sight afforded to her when she glances at his face is a bestial snarl, cutting sharp through any sign of pain or discomfort or even relief.

The rest doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters.

Don’t touch.

Instantly, her hands lift up and away.

"I'm sorry," comes immediately. "I was afraid, if something went all the way through..."

An explanation that doesn't feel sufficient, considering his reaction. What use is a discussion of anatomy when she's transgressed in some very serious way? Derrica hasn't ceded any ground, but she doesn't reach for him again.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, more quietly.

Her pulling off the coat he’d anticipated. He’d been ready for it. He’d even been ready for the idea of what she’d no doubt see when it was drawn away—

But he hadn’t expected the softer scuff of her hands across his back. For it, he finds himself in need of a moment to acclimate to the sight of her there beside him. To the shape of her apology, fearful and remorseful all at once.

And as it settles into place, as the world around them returns from a constricted state of malignance back into order, something half-formed within his recent past makes a little more sense.

“...it’s fine.”

His exhale is thin. It aches for the trouble.

“Just....a little warning next time, darling.”

~~It isn't fine,~~ Derrica wants to say. She'd overstepped in a way that feels very personal, the kind of transgression that an apology doesn't quite erase. The way he'd flinched away from her—

When she does touch him a second time, it's a very light settling of her palm over his wrist.

"I understand," she tells him, and then, "Did I hurt you?"

There's no reason to think those marks had pained him, but the possibility of it sticks in her mind. That at least would be something she could do.

“You don’t understand. If you did, you wouldn’t be asking.” Sharper, that point. Sharper still than the pardon he’d offered only seconds before— and the continuation he offers in the seconds that follow:

“They’re old. They don’t elicit any sort of feeling. That doesn’t mean I want you touching them.”

But she’s a pretty thing. Soft in her regret. In the way her fingers grace his bare wrist in the dark. He could choose to make himself cutting, more guarded.

He doesn’t.

“Take care of the leather first, then I’ll let you check me over as thoroughly as you like.”

And for once, that’s not an innuendo.

The urge to explain exactly what she'd meant comes and goes. It's rooted in a kind of defensiveness that Derrica recognizes as less than helpful. What does it matter what she'd intended, by her initial action or her question after? The effect of it all is the same.

Of course they hurt him. Maybe not physically, the way it would feel if she put her hand on the barely-healed wounds across his chest and pressed down, but in some deeper, lingering way. The way Dairsmuid sometimes catches her in the course of their work, a sharp burst of pain unearthed by some association she couldn't have anticipated.

Her fingers linger for a moment, before she turns and rises up with the leather in her hands. When she beats it against the cavern wall, a spray of ice blotches the dust. After a few moments, she ceases her work, lifts the leather with a critical eye.

"I think that's taken care of most of it. The leather will warm in a few moments, so it will be easier for you to wear."

Capable of warming him, rather than trapping cold against his skin. She folds it over his lap for inspection.

He’s a petty thing. A sharp-edged thing. The time it takes her to work cold leather over is in her hands is the time it takes for him to truly settle back into eased exhaustion, rather than any protective rush of adrenaline urging him towards biting instinct.

Trust isn’t the word for what’s left behind, but like a wild animal calmed, he seems certain that this is safe.

Well, as safe as anything can be in the base of a ravine running just along a hostile fortress.

“I’m sorry.” he offers as she turns back towards him, a sullen expression working its way across his face— the very picture of wearied gentility.

“I was brutish to you. Beastly, even.”

"You don't have to apologize," she answers, sincere as she draws her hands back from the leather, folds them over her knees. "I'm not..."

A trailing pause, while Derrica tries to sort the words. She wasn't affronted by his reaction. She'd never for an instant believed he would hurt her. If there's a wound, it's already healed.

"I was careless," is a true thing. It feels true to Derrica. "When I said I understand, I meant that...I meant that I know what it's like when someone drags up something painful from your past. Does that make sense?"

Is Dairsmuid anywhere near what he must have suffered? Derrica can't tell. And Astarion is so clearly exhausted that it feels like an unkindness to drag any explanation out of him now, and perhaps an unkindness to wait until he's rested to ask as well.

The apologetic look fades at her confession, facade washed away in an unexpected instant: he’d only been feigning true remorse, after all— something to both soothe and serve as self-protection when he desperately needs all the help he can get. Biting the hand that figuratively feeds him here could be disastrous, and senseless as he is from the weariness sunken bitterly under his skin, he still knows he needs her.

He does need her.

So he squints at her for a moment, as if trying to find the answer in her face. And failing that, he presses, softly:

“Prove it,” he murmurs, the words prettier in their execution than the demand they make. Low and tentative. Careful, even.

“Tell me yours.”

Consider it an eye for an unintentional eye. The kind of lawless justice exacted by wild spirits in fairy tales, always quick to retribution for even the most innocent of slights.

Well.

Derrica does consider him for a moment, watching the shift of Astarion's expression. Prove it stings, but it doesn't manage to nettle her towards offense. Instead, she takes a moment to try to think how to tell such a story.

Astarion is a Rifter. There are parts of it that will not make sense to him, not the way they would if he had lived in Thedas for some time.

She reaches for his hand, turns it over in her own, as she tells him, "Far to the north, there is a country called Rivain. That's where I was born, and where I was raised, first in a small fishing village, and then in the Circle. It was called Dairsmuid."

The dim light makes it impossible to read anything out of his palm. But her fingers trace along the lines there, as she tips her head to ask, "Do you know very much about the Circles yet?"

“Rivain. I've been told it'd suit my tastes— as well as my nature— better than anywhere else.” Pacification lives in the slow slide of her fingertips across his palm. Steadied and calm, there isn't a drop of hostility cast her way, not even via the red of his half-lidded gaze as he listens.

“And in regards to the Circles, I know they’re meant to be a way to keep magic in...check, shall we say.”

Fenris had once told Astarion to lean into the idea that mages belong in Circles. Gifted ammunition for a creature looking fiercely to incite chaos amongst his own allies. The temptation will always be there, of course, but this time— soothed by her touch and driven by curiosity— he stays that instinct. Keeps his tone level. Passive.

“Those that use it more than its existence, but I’m sure to some perspectives it’s probably very much one and the same.”

Now that he's said as much, Derrica immediately considers and finds herself in agreement. He would do well in Rivain, likely be well-received. And he certainly isn't the first member of Riftwatch she's come to such a conclusion over, even if it's as unlikely to come to pass for Astarion as it is for anyone else she's wished it for.

Her fingers sweep across her palm, slight frown marking her brow. In check, he says. It's a delicate translation, and she wonders who had explained Circles to him, what they had said in place of such a diplomatic description.

"They're meant to be places of instruction," Derrica agrees. "And they can be a home to mages, among their own people. Southern Circles were often harsh and..."

A trailing pause, thinking of Matthias, of Marcus. Even of Kostos.

"I was very lucky to have been born in Rivain, and to have been raised in Dairsmuid. I would have been happy to remained there all of my life, and taught young mages the way I had been taught. It was my home," Derrica tells him, whatever that might mean to Astarion. Surely the weight of it is clear in the bittersweet dip of her voice, before she tells him, "The Chantry and its templars destroyed it all."

Does Astarion know of templars? Surely someone must have warned him of them. A Rifter should be as wary of them as a mage, as far as Derrica is concerned.

“Destroyed it?”

There’s much he’s researched. More he’s skimmed over or spoken about in inquiry— but even with that being the case, a foreign world is a difficult thing to know completely, even for the people within it.

His browline knits, fingers curling slightly in her grip. The cold numbing it all feels momentarily distant.

“Whatever for?”

While parsing her answer, Derrica folds his hand between both of her own. The patches of skin near-frozen are still easily detected, and she chafes against the lingering chill, eyes dropped to the work of her fingers.

"For treating mages with kindness, and dignity. Letting us see families and come and go from the tower as we pleased," is only part of it. She is thinking of Leander's voice, saying: I learned how to swim. She shakes her head. "And, maybe worst of all, Rivain taught us that our magic as a part of ourselves, something to be proud of, instead of something we should be terrified of and hate ourselves for having."

For traditions that the Chantry would rather remain forgotten.

Derrica's fingers smooth over a cool stretch of skin, last shard of ice melting into a trickle.

"I was going to ask if you understood what that was like, someone hating you enough to want you dead for no reason other than things they've made up and told themselves are true of you. But I hope you don't. And I'm very sorry, if you do."

Be sorry for yourself.

He can feel those words curling across his own tongue, thorny and resentful of everything. Everything.

Even himself.

But this pit is cold. And he is cold. And he is so bloody tired.

So Astarion swallows down instinct, letting it digest alongside the story he’d just been told, skin warming beneath her touch— the faint trickling of condensation across the contours of his hand doing nothing but drawing his attention to the fact that he doesn't want her to let go just yet.

“Why did you come here? You know who I’m traveling with.”

It makes more sense now, why she'd come to help him, and her evasiveness in regards to tending to the others; it makes less sense now, why she'd come at all.

It's a fair question.

Derrica gives it due consideration, running her thumbs along his knuckles once, then again. The chill doesn't leave Astarion's skin despite her best efforts, but some of the deathly cold eases under the contact.

"Because what I can do is a gift. Healing comes easily to me in a way it doesn't to all mages, and it's—"

Easier to speak of such things to Holden, then to Astarion.

"It's like a calling. And I won't flinch from it because of templars and seekers."

Even if it was galling to spend her magic on them, Derrica still would. That she's saved from doing so by Adrasteia is only a technicality. Derrica would have come here no matter who else had volunteered themselves.

[ OPEN | PLAYER PLOT ] This is how it feels to take a fall

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