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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UPPER CAVERNS:

The air is warmer while the sun is out. Dry and hot, laced with dust even in narrower tunnels. A byproduct of the sand trickling in through cracks in the overhanging ravine. It makes sleeping uncomfortable whether you opt to rest in the heat of day or the equally resentful chill of night— and eating is worse.

Unless you enjoy crunching on sand.

Most of the cavernous pathways are open at this depth, which at least means a breeze will occasionally carry, or that calls for help or warnings of danger won’t be too impossible to pinpoint—

But with so much stone to map, and so many holes of roughly identical shape and size, you might want to hope you’ve brought something navigational to path your course. Or else you could be stuck here for much, much longer than you’d intended.

LOWER DEPTHS:

It’s cool at first, near the mid-point between the upper layers and the lower caverns. Probably a welcome change from dry heat.

Once it shifts deeper and damper, however, that might not be the case.

It becomes cold quickly. Always cold. And the damp stone will soak equipment or clothing that isn’t properly protected, making that frigid chill all the more unbearable.

If you’ve eyes capable of seeing in the dark, the endless stretch of shadowy, constricted tunnels might not be as terrifying to contend with— even with numerous dead ends to bypass, or seemingly safe pathways that quickly close in to a claustrophobic crack— but when every footstep carries an echo, and every sound in the silent, inky pitch becomes overwhelmingly audible, it can be hard to think you’re truly alone.

And terrifying to know you’re not.

I. for Tiffany and Astarion

Maker only knows how long it's been, but at least two days have passed, judging by the sliver of sky Barrow is able to see from where he lies prostrate and trying not to choke on his own blood. It may have been more-- he's been drifting in and out of consciousness, after all-- but the best timekeeping device of all is the one that has his muscles spasming periodically, with the characteristic mental drifting, dry mouth, and nausea that comes with lyrium withdrawals.
He wouldn't even have noticed it, if not for the spasms that shake the arrow sticking through him, now pushed all the way through by the bad (and perhaps good?) luck of landing on his back in the fall. He can do little more than whimper each time he shakes.

"My pack," he wheezes, to whichever companion should check in, and faintly nods his head out into the cavern-- it fell off him when he fell off the griffon, but should still be around here somewhere.
Tiffany, at least, will likely be able to glean what he's looking for: a lyrium kit, with enough doses to last about a week, give or take. He tried to be prepared, but couldn't have known.

II. Rescuers

It's a sorry sight the reinforcements find, in the form of Barrow's bulky form pallid, still, and slumped on its side in a puddle of blood, the sources of which seem to be his scalp, his mouth and nose, and both sides of his torso. He is unconscious but breathing shallowly, an arrow sticking through his back and out his chest, through the lung.

Edited 2021-07-30 18:55 (UTC)

I: SPAM X TO HEAL

The caverns are indescribably dark. At times there’s no difference between when his eyes are shut and when they’re open, and between the incessant pain of wounds that keep him from moving coupled with the drowsy haze of lost blood, it can be hard to know when he’s awake— and when he’s dreaming.

He thinks he’s dreaming when he sees someone else’s silhouette hovering over him. His own expression narrowed with uncertainty, and lost a moment later to the puncture wounds that course across his chest from the edge of his throat all the way to his right hand.

Lucky in misfortune, that it was frost magic he’d been struck with— that the chill of this place, painful as it is, is potent enough that the damaged tissue doesn’t bleed more than a passing trickle at any given moment. Chest still rising and falling with obvious effort, as it certainly doesn’t hurt any less each time he breathes through sharp teeth.

“If you’re some...sort of demon come to claim me....” he starts, panting at the tail end of every word, “....you should know I’m...not terribly interested in dying just yet.”

II: LET IT GO

He’s doing better, if better can be measured by alertness over just about everything else. He isn’t in danger of outright perishing at a moment's notice, but that’s done nothing to fix the weakness that seems to plague him enough that he’s still laid out flat more often than he’s capable of sitting upright or working with his hands.

Miserable.

All this over a good deed. What a bloody nightmare.

His teeth chatter as night sets in. He fits his hands across his chest— even the injured one— and shivers to try and flush some warmth back into his everything. Ignoring how it aches terribly.

What he wouldn’t give for a fire right now. Or a blanket. Or— anything at all, really.

III: ALONE IN THE DARK...?

Useless. That’s what he is. He’s certain he’s part of the cavern floor now, sprawled across it in the wracking dark. Listless and lost to his own deeper injuries, and too weary to so much as lean to one side, head dropped to the dust beneath him, curls marked with it.

And then he hears footsteps in the dark.

“Oh— “ he breathes out, swallowing thickly before chasing it with a sigh of relief. Tiffany. It must be her. The only member of their party capable of movement. The echo must be making it more severe. More frequently percussive.

“...it’s only you. I thought— I thought you were someone else.”

It’s only as the sound draws nearer, as tired eyes find their focus, that he recognizes the sharper patterning of Tevinter clothing in approaching shadow, his own body tensing with the suddenly dilated passage of time.

Danger. Danger—

IV: CRYSTAL

[None of this is unfamiliar. Shivering and hurting in lightless depths. No one around to make it easier. He needs something. Some kind of distraction in the dark— something to help combat the numbness or the pervasive silence or the damned cold, damp and equally painful.

Making too much noise could be a problem in and of itself, but truth be told he’s beyond caring at this point. Anything to keep the worst at bay.]

...tell me your view is better than mine.

V: WILDCARD

[ooc: mix and match prompts, make up new ones of your own, I'm down for all of it! Astarion will eventually be in a slightly better way later on, but I’ll save those prompts for the upper caverns when he’s on the way out of here. As of right now he’s more or less a literal wet blanket. Severely wounded, and v weak.

He, much like a neglected tamagotchi, needs all the help anyone could possibly offer.

And for once he'll remember it.]

Tiffany does know what he's after. She's sat a few feet away, her back against the cavern wall that is blessedly very cool. Her arm feels badly and it hurts to breathe, sometimes, in a way that's made her reluctant to peel off all of her armor lest she find something horrible beneath it. But she's doing better than the others.

She tracks Barrow's clumsy nod with her eyes, seeking out the shape of his pack in the dark. Even when the sun is high in the sky it is dark down here. Splotches and shafts of blazing sunshine make their way down through that high-up fissure and bake the sand. The intensity of that light only makes the shadows shadowier.

She pushes away from the wall, her boots scuffing in the sand.

"You should have been a Seeker." Light, no particular judgement. If she fetches his kit, she can check on Astarion on the way. Not that she can do very much for him.

A pillar of light erupts in Astarion's view, intercepting the Venatori search party, knocking them back momentarily-- one falls on their arse, the others look around wildly for the source.

Barrow's hand is outstretched for only a moment before he lets it drop again, head lolling back against the stone wall of the cavern. He's tried to sit up, the better to breathe, not that it makes all that much of a difference.

There was a large part of Barrow that had every intention of hiding his particular abilities from the Seeker as long as he could, but now that she is the only thing standing between himself and an even more agonizing death than the one he's enduring, he no longer gives a nug's ass who knows.

A thin puff of breath suffices for his reaction-- a laugh, maybe, or a scoff, at the mere implication he could be anything better than a Templar deserter. He doesn't mind that much; he probably deserves it.

Tiffany moves off, out of Barrow's field of vision. She's not gone for very long--his pack fell a ways off, yes, but she finds it easily enough, and then it's just a little farther to Astarion. Once she's sat near to Barrow a bit longer, she'll keep the Rifter company, too, which is a nice way of thinking of trying to make sure he doesn't die.

Back by Barrow's side, she lowers herself gingerly to one knee. It hurts, that deep deep ache in her chest and side sharpening to a stabbing, but Tiffany pushes through the pain and comes out on the other side. Letting out a breath, she lets the pack fall from her shoulder and onto the sand with a muted thud.

"Water first."

They have a little. There might be water somewhere down here, and in the meantime, they have to ration what little there is. Barrow is worthy of using up some of that. Tiffany's bad arm is fairly useless, so she pulls the stopper from her waterskin with her teeth and holds it out to him.

Don't waste it, he wants to say-- he's certainly done for-- but if he's going to die here, better to do it slightly more comfortably, hence the lyrium.

So instead he just nods, his hand shaking as he accepts the waterskin and sips from it, trying not to take more than it will require to wet his mouth.

"Sorry I," he wheezes in a whisper, pausing for breath, "didn't tell you." His face is wry, if anguished; it's sort of funny, in its way, isn't it?

Edited 2021-07-31 00:08 (UTC)

It is, sort of, Tiffany. Or at least it will be.

That wasn't Tiffany. The flash of light wasn't Tiffany either, obviously, but it does get her attention. She'd left her post halfway between her more seriously injured companions, partially to wake herself from her drowsing, partially to look for something edible to round out their meager supplies.

All that forgotten, she turns, sharply, staring back the way that she came. The sudden movement wrenches her side but she doesn't have time for the pain. She has to get back there. Whatever is happening can't be good. For the second time on this mission, she starts to run toward Barrow and Astarion, her boots slipping in the sand.

"It is more suspicious not to have told me."

She's joking. Hopefully that comes across by the wry little smile she gives him in return, if he can focus his eyes well enough to see it. Her hand hovers just beside the waterskin, in case his grip should fail.

"You don't need to waste your breath with apologies. You can tell me anything you like after we get back to the Gallows."

The smile is returned with one more sheepish, and a little nod, even though he winces as he does.
His inclination is still to protest, to dissuade her from getting anyone's hopes up-- especially his-- but instead he simply hands back the waterskin and rests his head against the wall, gasping lightly with the pain of it.

"The cats," he whispers after a moment, and pauses for a break, puffing in two shallow breaths, "...Athessa's... kittens. Make sure they're," puff, "looked after. Just in case." A pity they can't look after Athessa herself, but some things are simply beyond one's control.

Edited 2021-07-31 02:01 (UTC)

[Do you find glibness reassuring? Here's hoping.]

Not for long.

Magic?

From Barrow?

He feels as though he’s losing his mind, imagining all of this in a feverish— dreamspun haze. His good hand fumbles listlessly across tattered leather, searching for where he’d stuck his daggers— dagger? How many were left? What did he leave behind? When they left the base— when he’d fallen—

Whatever happens, it won’t be the end of him. He still has his teeth. They won’t expect it from a man that can barely lift his head from the dust.

For now, at least, Barrow’s bought time, and a scouting pair of Venatori aren’t so insurmountable a task to tackle, even as they recover from that brief shock: lighting the narrow cavern corridor with a flicker of their own magic held tightly in hand. A better means to spot their quarry.

[Not for— long?

Maybe his injuries are muddling his thoughts; he takes his comfort from that tone indeed, and from the sound of a voice breaking that otherwise pervasive silence. Heavier than it should be. More familiar than he wants it to be, the stillness of it all.]

Where are you now, I wonder... [He’s leaning on humor, but considering the circumstances, it’s a little dry.] diving into the dark heart of a Magister’s quarters...?

Preparing to slay yet another sharply dressed villain.

[Surely that counts as just as poor a view, by Fenris' standards.]

Edited (im tired and incoherent forgive me) 2021-07-31 04:25 (UTC)

No, not a demon. You're in luck, Astarion.

"You're not going to die," Derrica assures, tumbling down onto the cave floor beside him. The contents of her satchel clink as she drops it from her shoulder. "Can you sit up at all?"

The expectation: a snippy no. She's already reaching for him, fingers light over frost-rimed leather, trying to map out the worst of the injuries.

It was all he had, and Barrow is realizing through the haze of his constant pain that he may have just made it worse for both of them-- at least, if he hadn't intervened, they might have been left for dead.
Too late for that now.

He slumps back and watches, hoping they're at least quick about it, for Astarion's sake.

“...an angel, then.” he teases mildly at the now much clearer sight of her, ruddy edge of his mouth twisting into a self-satisfied grin— that fades immediately when he coughs, hissing hard through the gaps in sharp teeth to keep it somewhat subdued (sound carries too easily down here, and the less attention drawn the better off they'll all be). Right. Too much.

He knows his own limits better than that.

Exhaling there, he tips his own hand towards her, moving it away from the roaming course of her own fingertips, and exposing a jagged path of puncture wounds still limned with frost: running from the slope of his neck down diagonally to the opposite hip— ending in one last gash above the thumb of his right hand, as if his injuries were some sort of grim, frigid sash.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for poor hospitality at the moment...” As things are, only commanding magic would see him anywhere near sitting upright.

“Can’t seem to get it up right now— my body, I mean.”

In case you thought the near brink of death would be the end of his crude sense of humor.

You give Tevinter fashion too much credit.

[Ha ha, it's a joke. Can't you tell by his absolutely flat delivery?]

I am trying to find you. Dolt.

There is, actually, a scuffle not too far off. Of course it's not too far off — because the goal here isn't to get into unnecessary engagements or draw attention to their position, so any fights by necessity are with Venatori who have strayed too close — and it's not exceptionally loud, for all of the aforementioned reasons. There's an eventual final-sounding thud, and a clatter of armor (that makes him wince, unseen) as he drags the soldier's body somewhere less likely for one of his fellows to stumble across.

(It's very possible, as a point of fact, that this is the first time he's killed another person with his sword. But even if that's the case, he doesn't draw attention to it when he emerges into their little portion of cavern.)

"We're fine," he reassures, returning the blue blade to its scabbard at his belt, and then approaching Astarion. He notices the shivering then, and frowns. Adrasteia had had the foresight to bring blankets, but warmer and nearer at hand is — "Here."

He strips off his jacket, kneels by Astarion so he can drape it carefully over his shoulders and torso. It probably smells like some combination of leather, and griffon, and sweat; but it's dry and body-warm, and it'll hopefully be better than nothing in the interim, however long it'll take him to find blankets in the dark once he stands.

[He laughs at that— or he tries to, anyway. Which part? Probably all of it. His sense of humor’s a pitiful thing right now.

And so’s his faith in general humanity.

Funny. Funny to think he’s actually convinced that this isn’t a lie.]

That’s a mistake. [Teasing, sharp. Pausing only to suck in an audible breath.]

Oh? [Anything to keep him talking, which, considering who he is, isn't difficult.] Tell me why.

It smells awful. The pungent memory of griffon musk associated with unpleasantness unchecked. His nose is too sharp, his senses made all the more so given the nature of the dismal dark and how waning vision's meant to kick everything else all the higher in compensation.

Even so, he's greedy about it, snaring that thicker coat with the edges of his fingertips, shivering through them as the barrier it forms between him and the frigid air starts to sink in at last.

His head feels a little clearer for it. Enough that he can work up the thinnest shadow of resentment at the now very real knowledge of who's kneeling there beside him.

"We have to stop meeting like this."

He doesn't move to stand immediately, concerned with making sure Astarion's a little more comfortable and stable first. He reaches out, makes a few little adjustments so the coat doesn't slip off Astarion, covers him more fully.

The comment earns a smile, brief, as he drops his head. As he looks back up, he comments, "It's not too late to take up knitting after all. I hear there's a lot less danger of nearly getting killed."

Pot, meet kettle.

It’s an insatiable stygian pit. [And he doesn’t just mean his own mien— a joke he’d normally make, but can’t seem to find the breath for at the moment. Consider it implied.] Keep blindly wandering into it, and eventually it won’t hesitate to sink its claws into you.

And then you’ll be just as stuck as I am. Not that I...mind the company.

[A pause, his thoughts shuffling like cards:]

Be honest.

Did you really just charge out here without a word?

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Page 1 of 16

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

LOCATION I:

LOCATION II:

Barrow

Astarion | early on

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III

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iv.

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i ish

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the second time this plot I rope you in for h/c trope

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mashes ii and iii in my hands like play-doh

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