faderift | [ 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

[ She doesn't take in a sharp breath when she sees the extent of the damage, but it's a near thing that has her nostrils flaring in anger and concern instead. ]

No that's... [ Understandable, to say the least, but she simply shakes her head once, moving her hands to rest warm palms against the cuts at his throat. It'll be a matter of melting the ice, and then healing the wound. Careful work, but something she's built for. ] Can you move your fingers?

[He lifts them— the slender fingers of his good hand— frigid as death when they brush across her cheek.

The answer is yes.]

Do I pass the test?

Oh, darling.

[ She'd meant his right hand, actually, so. No. Not exactly, but she doesn't have the heart to ask him to try again. She brushes her cheek against his fingers (so cold) and then takes his right hand in both of hers, massaging the fingers with warm hands very focused on dispelling the ice clinging to him and healing what she can. ]

You promised me secrets. I shan't forget, now.

[It burns as much as it agonizes, that necessary warmth. The difference is too stark, even for him— and the way he twitches when his eyes shut, lips drawn into a narrow line, is the most well-buried testament to it. Like an animal hiding its own suffering, just to keep from showing weakness.

His exhale is thin. Thready. The words themselves, however, sound steady enough despite that tension.]

All right, then. I'll make an early exception.

Ask away.

[ Maker, what she wouldn't give to have something, anything on hand that might lessen his suffering. She knows, however, that what she's doing is the best for his healing over time and thus continues, even as he strains not to show his discomfort. ]

Do you... Are you in love with anyone?

[ She thinks of Helec and the way she'd loved him, like a steady flame. She thinks of Sidony and all of its newness, shining in the dark. She thinks of those she cares for, and about, her friends and coworkers and crushes alike.

The nerves in his hand begin to knit themselves together, along with the flesh. She's still rubbing his fingers, one at a time.

Adrasteia wants to know if he has anyone like that. ]

[He starts to laugh— and oh, it hurts terribly. Enough that the expression he'd already been wearing springs tighter like a trap snapping closed for one single slip-up of a beat.]

...no, my dearest dove. Love has never been my forte.

[Another exhale, lower this time, and he manages to wind back into some semblance of composure as his wounds knit in slower patterns. A mercy.]

[ She shifts so that she's sitting, legs crossed beneath her robes, instead of kneeling over him. His hand, along with part of his arm, settled against her knee. Her fingers move to the palm and back of his hand. ]

What is your forte? [ She shakes her head a little; perhaps that is asking too much, without giving enough in return. Instead: ]

I worry about you.

[ Perhaps a silly and obvious thing to say, considering the positions they're in, but no less true. Who are his people, here and now? Who will come to his defense and protect him? ]

Enslavement, torture, seduction, this—

[It's spat out like blood, that bitter confession. Nothing at all pretty about it.

Months ago he'd hinted at how her world was the path from his tower, the key to his chains— he'd never specified how deep that truth ran, or the details of it, but even addled and unstrung as this moment is now, the weight of it might finally sink in.]

I don't know. I never had the chance to know.

And now that I'm free, I don't know where to start.

[His hand is heavy against her leg, he lets it settle in her grasp without fighting it. Wearied as an animal run too hard for too long.]

Doing a wonderful job so far, all the trouble I've gotten into. Bottom of a ravine. Freezing to death. Tevinter snapping at our damned heels.

[ Adrasteia is quiet for a moment, taking in all that implies. What all it could mean. 'I never had the chance to know' states limitations. That perhaps Asterion wasn't in control.

She knows she wants to think that is it because he's her friend and because she cares aboiut him; she knows herself well enough for that.

Her hands don't stop moving, dispelling ice and healing as she moves from the back of his hand and his palm to his wrist. ]

You start with what brings you joy. The small and the not-so-small things. You start with the people you feel better about being around. You take it a day at a time.

It’s not that simple, you know.

[Wry. Weary. His thumb, now that the nerves in his hand have begun to mend, brushes an absent, comforting rhythm across her leg where it rests: a distraction for everything else, grounding when he’s entirely reliant on her in the moment, to pull him away from the dark and the cold and the pain.]

Two hundred years of torture tends to...twist one’s sense of pleasure.

Two hundred years is a long time for anything, [ is Adrasteia's calm response to that after a beat, but she can only imagine. Two years, ten, of any particular behavior will reshape how a person responds to it, what they'll do or seek out. She knows this firsthand. ]

The things that make you happy are often what will harm others. [ It's not a question but it is a presumption he is welcome to change if he'd like. ] Is there nothing you wished of for yourself? No dreams that held on through the ages?

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

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