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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Ellie presses her lips together, lifting her eyebrows, thinking of Tommy and Joel, of Tess and their days spent doing less than savory things. While Ellie had extensive experience in violence, subterfuge was a little beyond her.

She's interrupted from her thoughts by Astarion's offer.

"No," she says instantly, like a reflex, and then repeats it more quietly. "No. I mean, thanks, but-"

Pausing, she works the pressure out of her throat.

"It still wouldn't be a good idea."

“Suit yourself.” He concedes, shifting closer to her, head tipped lightly against her leg, a near imitation of an animal insisting on attention. Sated as he is, he still aches to the bone, and his wounds are more inclined to gnaw now that he’s not slipping away under some wearied current of half-starved desperation. Whatever attention she has to spare— by touch or conversation— is enough to take the edge off.

And he's always been greedy at heart.

“If it were me, and our places were swapped, I’d take the offer.”

Touch, especially casual touch, has been difficult to grapple with for so long -- but Astarion shattered that barrier the night they met in person, and it'll surprise Ellie later that she thinks nothing of the way he leans up against her.

Automatically, she reaches down to set a hand on his hair, like she would a cat that had nudged up against her. Her fingertips are rough with calluses from her weapons, her bow, but her hand's warm.

"You would," she mutters, like it's meant to be cutting, but it comes out fond. Ellie sighs deeply and settles, tipping her head back to look up at the vaulted rock.

"... I'm not ready," she confesses, her voice soft.

"My darling girl," Astarion exhales smoothly, contented by the slow scuff of her fingertips through his curls, every bit the lapcat in this uniquely placid moment. "No one's ever ready."

Much as some love to claim love is a battlefield, the truth is, it's nothing more than heat and passion, short-lived sparks. It lives, and it dies.

Just like everything else.

"In fact, it's more than possible you'll have your heart broken— or you'll break hers, or whatever it is the dance you do lends itself to. But you know, that's the beauty of it: the thrill of living, and the wonder of having a choice. Because if you don't leap every now and then before it's too late, you won't know the rushing thrill of gravity— no matter how steep the fall."

Mm. On second thought, perhaps his mind is still suffused with fatigue. This all sounds far too gentle for his taste.

Ellie has to fight back the stupid, intrusive urge to laugh. Instead she scrunches her fingers, gently tangling them up in Astarion's loose curls, and shuts her eyes tight, wetting her lips. She knows Astarion wouldn't appreciate her snickering out loud.

"God, you're a sap," she whispers, the smile all through her voice, hurting her cheeks as it breaks free.

"I know that. You think this would be my first rodeo?"

“How old are you, five? Ten years? You can’t have that much under your belt.”

He’s teasing. A menace beneath her fingertips and he knows it, grin glinting in the dark where she can’t see.

Ellie snorts, and this time actually does laugh, though she keeps it quiet. All the better to not jostle him where he's still curled against her thigh.

She pokes him lightly in the cheek.

"Twenty. Not that it matters." She sighs, and the laughter bleeds out of her voice, ending in a small huff of breath. They're not cheerful stories, unfortunately.

"It didn't work out, the last time. I'm not-" Ellie pauses, catches at her lower lip with her teeth. "Ready for someone else."

He clicks his tongue against the back of sharp canines as she prods him, his only good hand reaching high to make some miserably feeble attempt at snaring her fingertips.

But whether he succeeds or he fails, when her own mood sinks like a stone, his does exactly the same, falling deep into sobriety. A subtle, quiet segue into one singular confession.

"...I don't understand."

"What part?" she asks, letting him bat at, then grab her hand, letting her fingers go slack. She's warmer than he is, despite how thin she is. Her eyes are almost luminous in the reflection of the firelight.

It sounds... heavier than it should, and she's not sure she understands what he's trying to say.

"How can you not be ready just because your last attempt fell through?"

He might not remember much from the life he'd left behind, but it's not as though whole swaths of the mortal way of life have been lost; he'd played his role as one of them for centuries, after all. And imitation might as well be reality, in some respects.

He knows the steps. The dance itself.

Ellie's mouth twists at the edge, that pain bubbling up again, the taste of ash in her mouth.

Fear tastes like blood, she'd say, but guilt tastes like ashes.

"Because I'm the one who fucked it up," she says quietly. "And I wanna be sure I wouldn't fuck things up again, and-"

She shakes her head, short, because she knows this is the real reason. "-I'm still in love with her. Even if everything else were perfect, everything still reminds me of her. It wouldn't be fair, you know?"

No, he doesn't know. But there's no point in pressing that matter once again, when they've already brushed up against his unique lack of experience regarding deeper affection than wild, fleeting passions. Games of chance and touch, and risk unspoken.

Instead, he lets his eyes drift close, still soothed by the weight of her fingertips.

“Who was she?”

Ellie's fingers move, and she lightly traces a curl, tucking it behind one pointed ear. It's debatable whether the movements are conscious at all.

"Dina," she says softly, and there's a lot of pain tangled up in the name. Softness, longing. The memories crush in, flickering between the good and the bad, the mistakes she's made and all the times she somehow got it right.

"She's alive," she adds, because so many of the people she's told Astarion about are dead. "And last I saw, she was safe."

The fire crackles, sending up a wave of sparks, and Ellie half-shuts her eyes.

"We met when I was about fourteen. I'd just come to Jackson -- Joel wanted a safe place for me. For us to live. She came up to me an introduced herself like she was the mayor or something." Ellie half-laughs. "And we knew each other for years. Dated other people, but she- she was always there. She made paper crowns for my birthday once. I made her listen to all my records, over and over. She didn't tell me until years later that she hated Sick Habit."

The edge of her mouth twitches, almost a smile.

"She didn't give a fuck about what people thought. She could hold her own in a fight, and we were a damn good team on patrols. She could get almost any gadget working if she had the right tools. And she just... didn't give up on people. Even when everybody else did."

If he notices the details of that attention, it doesn't show. Maybe that's the line they both dance: awareness and blissful nothingness. One foot in the present, one in the past.

It sounds nice, her story.

It's also nothing he can truly picture in the warped and twisted expanse of his own mind. Like attempting to describe a color to someone without sight, or taste to a creature with no tongue. He's lost that sense— if he ever had it to begin with.

"And how exactly, then, did you 'fuck it up'?"

The smile disappears, like a soul fading out of someone's eyes, leaving something too still, vaguely horrific in its emptiness. Ellie stares off into space for a few seconds too long.

"... I was a mess after what happened to Joel," Ellie says, and her voice is just as distant as the rest of her, like she's staring at something that isn't there, and it's taken a part of her with it.

You go, I go.

"She was there. Every step of the way. She wouldn't let me do it alone. And I kept going until I almost got her killed, too. And after that, I... tried to get my shit together. And she tried not to notice that I couldn't.

"And then I stopped trying."

Ellie drops off again, running her fingertips over the bracelet looped around her wrist, the worked silvery charm, a symbol of protection and warding. Something she didn't believe in, but Dina always had.

"I was the one who left."

He thinks not of love, but of the terrible sensation of bleeding out in the cold night air. The horror of being caught alone, unawares— of humans cornering him like hounds— and it was like something out of a storybook, the sight of him there so suddenly, conjured from nothingness. Handsome, fierce. A hero wrapped in a cloak of pure shadow.

He thinks about regret.

Because that's all he hears in the sound of her voice.

"Even if she's alive, you won't likely see her again. And at the end of the day, what good are memories? You can't touch one. You can't talk to it. It's as good as ash— and only half as useful."

It's far from a comforting thing to hear, but it pulls her from the ache enough to bring her back to the present, blinking, hurting. She gently combs his fingers through his hair.

"Maybe," she mutters, and falls silent, pausing.

... and then she shifts, reaching for her bag.

She presses her hand down deep, retrieving a small handkerchief, opening it up. She's shown Astarion this before; it's the moon rocks Joel brought her, from worlds away. She takes one up in her fingers, squeezing until it makes her hand ache.

"But I remember the day Joel brought me these. And I think about the day he took me to a museum when I was sixteen. We looked at all the dinosaur fossils. All the things that lived millions of years before we ever set foot on the earth. And he sat with me in a replica of a space shuttle, while we listened to a recording of the launch that put a man on the moon."

Ellie lets her eyes fall mostly shut.

"Without the memories, these are just rocks."

Slowly, she puts the rock in Astarion's hand.

Closes his fingers over it.

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

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