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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Admittedly, he’s doing his level best to stay conscious; when faced with even a simple question he feels a half-step away from incoherency. Which is why he skips the former, and moves right to the latter— squinting up at that familiar face in the dark, features clear as day to his own inhuman stare.

“Freezing, literally.” Said with a short-lived raising of his uninjured hand to sweep in a middling gesture towards the front of his own damaged leathers, ice fragments still clinging tight to freshly scabbed wounds that seem to cut a vivid path diagonally across Astarion's front from his neck down. Visible even without light for how it seems to glisten.

Before, it'd been a horrific, jagged thing. Half-treated now, it's not nearly so grim a sight.

Nearly being the key word.

“Lacking in a fair amount of blood, but— I won’t perish from it, in case that’s what you’re worried about.”

"Hardly. I suspect that if anyone meant to be rid of you, they'd have to try much harder than this."

He doesn't have as easy a time seeing, so he reaches out, fingertips cautiously skimming where the shape of Astarion's gesture had indicated; sure enough, there's the cold sting of those glistening fragments.

"-unfortunate, given the conditions here, but I suppose luck was on your side. There were certainly worse options." Being set on fire instead, for one thing. "I'll take the fact you're conscious at all as proof enough that you should manage, eventually."

"Ahah— mm. Careful please, darling."

As though Emet-Selch isn't already being careful (which he is, of course), though given the circumstances it's entirely possible any contact is going to be noticeably unpleasant.

Beyond the span of that fleeting wince, Astarion seems to notice at last the near-blindness plaguing his companion. The strain lingering behind his stare.

"The whole wicked affair was a blur. Didn't have much of a chance to take notes while it was happening, but I know it was a spell that struck me before everything went dark— and it was my chest that bore the brunt of it, minus a little scathing catch across my right hand."

If that helps, he doesn't know. But at least it'll remedy one of the problems Emet-Selch seems to be struggling with for the time being.

"...you know, you were the last person I'd expected to see here."

He retracts his hand, with a mutter under his breath- "Of course I'm being careful," what else would he be doing? The explanation helps, though, puts more of a description to the nastiness of that injury, the actual extent of it past what he could previously tell.

But he shifts to take a seat on the ground here with a faint sigh, fabric rustling as he does with all the layers he tends toward wearing.

"Why wouldn't you expect me? You're owed something of a debt, in case you'd forgotten, and I mean to settle it."

"Oh, yes." The words are halting, almost panted for how he catches his breath throughout— using the gaps to form the next portion of those sentences. "Can't have anything hanging over your head, can you? What a pity that would be."

It's a joke. Maybe a little bruised, maybe a little relieved, maybe bitter. Maybe all of it. He's a complex creature, and one made entirely rudderless by his current state.

"Tell me you brought bandages, then. Or something to keep me warm."

He'll take anything, at this point. Even dry, tasteless rations: survival is survival, after all.

"I cannot, no. After all, I did begin at a deficit, having little to my name when I first began learning the local card games."

An easy, casual deflection-- something smaller, of no real import at all save for time invested into it on odd nights.

With the reminder of the cold, though, he considers a moment before he eventually shrugs off the warmest outer layer of his outfit, draping it over him (but with just enough caution not to, you know, just drop it over his face.) It exposes the torn fabric at his shoulder, but... that can't be helped.

"Bandages could likely be managed easily enough, with some effort," he adds. He has a dagger and more than a couple of layers to his clothing, after all, and in a pinch that ought to at least serve in the meantime.

He hasn’t got it in him to be stubborn. He hasn’t the willpower left to bite, or to feel sullen, or to demand his own feelings be catered to.

He isn’t alone in the blackened depths of this place, and for now, that’s enough.

“...you mean you’ll have to destroy your own clothing for it.” Astarion presses, staring up with glinting, near feline eyes. He sees more than his companion, and perhaps it shows.

"Fabric is fabric," he answers, with a wave of one hand-- flippant, dismissive. "And yes, flesh is flesh and will knit together on its own, but leaving a wound like that exposed in a place like this runs rather more risk than taking a few strips off a layer of cloth."

Any item used can be replaced, one way or another, but lasting damage to the body is harder to repair, and the cold is enough of a threat on its own. Astarion doesn't need multiple ways to fall ill.

"Besides, it isn't as if I'm proposing I remove any of it in its entirety-- to your disappointment, I am sure."

"Immeasurable disappointment," Astarion corrects thinly, more a product of circumstance than any truly dashed dreams. "But if you're willing to spare the sight of even a little skin here or there, I'll take it."

A joke, of course. Dry as the sand beneath them, and just as withering. He folds his good hand against the front of his leathers, feeling out the swath of frozen blood, the jagged frost that still keeps its claws sunk in. Knowing where it lies might— at the very least— help his companion to undo the worst of it.

"Was it Venatori that attacked you?"

"Most likely, yes. It will be best to proceed with caution."

One hand lifts to skim at the torn edge of fabric on his shoulder, brow furrowed. Further complications, exactly what they needed-- but not so difficult to deal with.

"Though I do suppose their interference has, in fact, given you what you wanted, so mayhap there is one good aspect to their presence here." Given the fact that it means he does, in fact, have some skin exposed there. Scandalous. Showing off that shoulder here where he cannot fucking see. He might, normally, make a crack at how the blood spoils the view, but he's not entirely sure that would be the case, and so he does not.

"Mayhap." Astarion echoes weakly, more intent than execution. Normally he'd be a thorn about this, vivid with satisfaction at having his way. Instead he's trying to think ahead— and failing. A stuttering sort of pattern that lives behind now closed eyes and exhausted breathing.

"Does your magic obey you, yet? It's going to be terribly difficult for us all if you're still neutered."

There's just silence, for a second, which is likely answer enough; it's a touchy enough subject for him that he doesn't even touch on Astarion's choice of words. "Not in full," he says after that moment's pause, "and near as I can tell, that feels unlikely to change. But I have sufficient control of what is currently within my power-- if I did not, I would hardly have made it this far."

“Oh. Well. Heartening.”

Said in a way that insists it isn't, in fact, overwhelmingly heartening at all.

“Here I thought it might’ve just been the power of teamwork or...something like that. But no, of course not. Stray cat that you are.”

Astarion wouldn't be surprised to learn that the man dragged himself out here without so much as an ounce of help. Spirited along by dogged determination and old bones, and a dedication to owing nothing in the way of debts.

"Heartening indeed, but-- rest assured that a fraction of my usual power is still not something to be overlooked. I'm more than capable of making do."

It will take more care and effort, but he'll be fine. It isn't as though he's never dealt with a difficult situation before, or had to work without his magic in public spaces-- when one's identity is supposed to be someone incapable of it, one works with what they have.

Then he continues, with a wry smile, "And really, you're one to talk. Sometimes I think if I put you out the door you'd be scratching at it within a quarter of a bell."

The whole time he's speaking, he's busy rearranging layers of fabric, taking the knife to them with a steady and careful hand. He's not about to stab himself doing this, thanks.

“And you’d miss me well before then.” Astarion smoothly counters, almost chuckling through his teeth.

Almost— but the dig of that frost shuts him up all too quickly. Instead, he listens quietly to the ripping of fabric underneath a tacky blade, his own breathing shallow as sunken sand. Steady, at least, only slower.

"It would be terribly quiet, at the least. Horribly peaceful, can't imagine how I might survive it."

And for a few moments, there's silence on his end as well, nothing but fabric giving way and shallow breaths he can just hear. Afterward, though, he allows, "I suppose there are times it is less desirable."

There's a decent chance this is one of those times.

“Don’t get all sweet on me now, darling....” Exhaled more than it’s spoken, his eyes still shut, while his ears stay attuned to the sound of shredding fabric at his side. The only focal point he has left outside of glancing conversation.

“I’ll start thinking I’m not long for this world.”

Having pity taken on him. Kindness.

Awful.

“—which I’m not. Not, I mean. I won’t here die in this miserable pit.”

"You had best not. You'd be heavier to carry as a corpse, and horrible company besides."

For all the glibness, though, there's a touch of a firm edge there. He most certainly is not dying here if Emet-Selch has anything to do with it, otherwise what was the point of this exercise? It isn't as though he came here to haul away a body, thank you.

"Far worse deaths to suffer, I suppose, but I'd hardly count this among the more memorable ones."

“Well. Better than my first, at least. But not by much— and not anything I’d like acting as the endpoint of my tale.”

He cracks one red eye open, shifting it sidelong to peer at his companion; surveying his progress with a brief flicker of energy.

"Having had my share of them myself, I do have to say you could do much better, yes."

It's about then that he sets the knife aside, though, adding, "I think this ought to be enough to work with for now."

"Ah, you're a dear. Just..." It's not a voluntary pause that settles in there, stealing a moment or two where Astarion's left gathering together his thoughts in order to stitch together some scrap of a plan of approach. Or, at the very least, to keep himself awake.

"You'll need to mind the frost. It has a habit of spreading."

"I believe I can manage that," he answers, with faint amusement. The gloves are partly habit, partly an attempt to keep his shard covered most of the time, but-- in this instance, it's for the best that he tends to wear them.

Now for the real work, though. He keeps those lengths of fabric on hand, reaching out cautiously. "Do try not to fall asleep on me, meanwhile. You seem to be the one of us who can see better, here, you're going to have to tell me just how this comes off. As quickly as possible, ideally."

It's too cold in here to take too long, after all. This is by necessity going to have to be as fast a job as it can be, just to ensure he's exposed to the temperature as little as possible.

Instead, Astarion dedicates himself to unfastening the buckles with his only undamaged hand: quicker, this way, rather than relying on Emet-Selch’s poorer eyesight or his own fading ability to think. It doesn’t take long before he’s peeled leather back away from his own ruined chest with a peppering crackle of displaced ice, leaving only the wounds beneath.

If Emet-Selch needs more than that, he’s free to demand it.

“Cold never bothered me, anyway.”

Damn, okay, Elsa.

"It's equally damaging whether it bothers you or not," he mutters as he sets to work; as long as it's pulled away and loosened, that should be enough to work with, but if this ice spreads like Astarion said.... don't mind him, he is just carefully pulling it the rest of the way off. They don't need the bandages just frosting over again from the outside. "Now hold still. Not that I expect you have much difficulty with that, at the moment."

Even with his vision being less keen, he's adjusted enough not to fumble. A steadying touch here and there, and he can manage fine, setting to work and continuing to speak just to try to make sure Astarion doesn't drift off too easily in the quiet. "I can't do more than this myself, you'll need to get this cleaned and enlist someone a bit more skilled in handling magic-inflicted wounds to truly take care of the problem, but-- it is, at the very least, a start."

It's difficult for Astarion to drift off regardless, with those gloved hands smoothing easily across injury. A mix of pain and subtler warmth, one sensation overriding the next, working as a distraction of its own sort.

Only occasionally does he grimace. Breath hitching and pulling back. Quiet and tolerant, where someone else might be whimpering or whining from the exhaustiveness of it all.

But he's had worse, for much too long.

"—Ahah. Nonsense. Honestly, I'm fairly certain I could walk right out of this place right now on my own, magic be damned."

~~No, he couldn't.~~

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

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