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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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.~~

It isn't terribly surprising, that he doesn't react overmuch. The way he's behaved the whole time speaks to a certain tolerance-- most people, he expects, would be far less talkative. Far less capable of trying to be. He's careful regardless, but... he notes this, as he does most things, before he just rolls his eyes at Astarion's response.

"Yes, of course. I'm quite certain you would be perfectly capable of it, which is precisely why I had to come seek you out here, of all places." He exhales a huff of a breath, there. "I may as well simply leave you to it."

...so he says, anyway, as he ties off the last strip of cloth he needed for this, and then leaves that leather outer layer set aside. In its place, Emet-Selch wraps the outermost layer of his own coat around Astarion. No freezing to death on the way out, no wearing anything icy, especially no complaining about it. Preferably no commentary, thank you.

The trim of that coat— no, not just that, but the lining, too— is saturated with heat. There's no helping the way Astarion's eyes close as he sinks beneath it by degrees, burrowing faintly like a denning beast. It's a mercy. An unrequested kindness. Normally he wouldn't know what to make of something like this.

Right now, all that matters is that he has it.

A long moment passes: him basking as much as he can manage, Emet-Selch no doubt thinking ahead in the dark, and then the silence breaks again. Tepid.

"Bandage your arm, darling. No point in bleeding out with me."

"'Tis naught but a minor wound. I'm hardly going to bleed out from something like this."

Despite the annoyance in his tone, though-- yes, he's working on it, tugging his remaining layers off the shoulder to get at it. It's a quick job, being a smaller injury, and he finishes it up easily enough.

"Now," he says as he tucks away any remaining strips of cloth, "let's keep moving, shall we? But insistent as you are, I'm afraid we don't have the time for you to stumble along."

His shoulder may be injured, but he can still manage this; he hauls Astarion up and into a carry with a wince, a bit of effort. He's got it, it's fine.

"Just- try to keep an eye out."

There's a held breath when he's lifted. A sharper exhale once he's there, expression pinched tight enough to be an obvious tell, even, perhaps, to the blind. If it's a struggle for Emet-Selch, then he can at the very least be comforted by the fact that it's a struggle for them both.

"So you don't run us both into a wall? Absolutely, my dear. It'd be my pleasure."

His voice is tense, the delivery off— but if nothing else, he can still manage a good punch line in the middle of all this misery.

"But I should warn you, I don't exactly know which way is....well, which."

"Well, fortunately for you, I most likely recall the way I came."

He thinks. He is fairly sure. It's just a matter of execution in the dark-- but he certainly doesn't miss that tension, either, exhaling a sigh as he sets off. This is, probably, the right direction.

"... you won't have to suffer the indignity long, I assure you," he adds, casually assigning the tension to that regardless of how true it might or might not be. An easy enough excuse if it needs to be one.

"We're an embarrassingly long way down, and the others—"

What about the others? It's not his business, whether they live or die. Truth be told, he wants out of here badly enough to invoke the whole every man for himself way of life—

But he wouldn't have made it this far without them. Not without suffering one hell of a lot more, or winding up snared by prowling agents.

"I don't want to leave them behind."

"You don't-"

Of course. He exhales a sigh, steps slowing and coming to a halt-- were his hands not occupied, he might well be pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. For all his behavior, maybe he shouldn't be surprised Astarion is like this; maybe Emet-Selch should just get used to being surrounded by these sorts.

(It's only right, though, is the thing. You don't abandon the others in your community. You have a duty to them. There is some satisfaction to be taken in Astarion's response, too.)

"Do you even know where in this godsforsaken hole they might be at the moment-- did you have any sort of plan for this at all?"

"Oh, a plan. Of course. Let me just consult the extensive arrangements I made before I fell in a fucking pit and nearly bled to death."

There'd be more for it normally. More bite, more punctuation, heavy on his tongue— but as it is he nearly chokes trying to get the words out, abandoning that attempt as quickly as it bubbles in the back of his own petulant throat.

And so, quietly:

"...we'll figure it out. And thankfully, you're not alone."

"Well, surely you had some time down here to think about it."

Muttered more than anything, with less bite to it. He supposes they're resigned to this now, although as he sighs and turns to consider their possible directional options here, he continues:

"I am not alone, no, but you are in no condition to push yourself and we cannot wander down here indefinitely. If there's no sign of them within a reasonable amount of time, then we get out."

"You won't hear any arguments from me." Astarion counters, easing in more fully against the crook of Emet-Selch's arm, the first sign of segue as his eyes fully close— as he sinks, his muscles heavy, into that hold. "I'm only the innocent bystander to your plots."

Murmured as though a purr, sleep heavy as the cloak draped over him.

"I have every faith you'll succeed."

There's a punchline meant for it. Something to chase that sincere sounding sweetness. Instead, as Astarion slips away into the first rest he's had in days, it's forgotten completely.

As lost as they are.

He's fully expecting the punchline. The follow-up. When it doesn't come, his mouth pulls into a faint frown as he squints down at Astarion, and on realizing he's fallen asleep-- Emet-Selch exhales a slow, even breath.

"Really," he huffs out, under his breath. "You rope me into this, you assure me the use of your eyes, and then you go and doze off on me and leave me to all the work. Whatever am I to do with you...?"

What a difficult person he is to deal with. But there's nothing for it now, is there, save to continue on; he spares a thought, he really does, to the idea of just-- leaving. Saying later that he'd tried and come up empty-handed. He could certainly lie, and down here, does anyone really know how much time has passed? It would, most likely, work.

He curses quietly to himself as he sets off in a likely-seeming direction, though, off to seek some other sign of life in this damnable place.

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

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