open | holiday spirits

[cozen]

WHO: Whoever, plus some spirits.
WHAT: Everyone spends an evening regretting the past. So basically a normal night.
WHEN: Wintermarch 5-6
WHERE: A castle in the mountains north of Kirkwall
NOTES: OOC post including less vague/pretentious haunting mechanic descriptions. Fantasy violence and swearing and so on are assumed, but please use content warnings in your subject lines for things like explicit gore or sex, slavery content, body horror, etc., if you go any of those routes.

THE CASTLE

Their convenient shelter from the unexpected blizzard that whips up around them in the mountain pass isn't too convenient. Anyone with a reasonable detailed map will find it marked there; reaching its clifftop location requires a slight detour. When they approach, it has no warm ethereal glow or suspiciously welcoming lit torches. The windows stay dark. The portcullis is raised just high enough to be ducked under, but the heavy doors of the keep don't swing open to welcome them.

The only immediate sign that something is amiss is the thorough, all-encompassing emptiness of the place, and it might take some investigation before that begins to feel strange. The fortress' abandonment seems recent and abrupt: ample firewood has been cut and stacked for the winter, nothing has been done to protect the furniture or strip the beds, the kitchen is fully stocked and even has some perishables that do not seem close to perishing, the stables are equipped to comfortably keep any animals along for the journey, and a chess board before the hearth in the (humble) grand hall seems to have been left mid-game. But there are no messages, no bodies, no footsteps dimpling the crunchy layer of old snow accumulated in the bailey beneath the fresh snowfall.

As they search, the castle's visitors may begin to find signs that the castle hasn't been entirely abandoned. It begins with whispers emanating from the dark ends of corridors, voices they recognize and others they don't, or faces both familiar and unfamiliar flashing in still water or window panes when firelight hits right, or forms moving on the edge of vision but vanishing before they can be looked at directly.

By the time this becomes worrisome enough to drive anyone back out of the castle, the portcullis has fallen shut and won't budge. Neither will any other doors to the outside. The windows won't break; doors won't give way even to makeshift battering rams. The only walls that can be climbed or reached by stairs face out over a deep ravine. It might be a survivable climb, if the wind and weather allowed, but it would not be a survivable fall.

THE SPIRITS

--so back inside, then.

The keep is built like the Gallows' towers, square and tall, and it won't take long for Riftwatch to notice that whatever is wrong is more wrong the higher they climb. The whispers and glimpses on the lowest floor become voices and lingering shadowy figures on the second. Someone might turn and find their hand briefly held by an unfamiliar man's, warm and real for the moment it takes him to say, "Come with me." Or behind them, a woman's shocked and seething voice says, "What are you doing?" Or maybe it's a hand they do know and a voice saying something they've heard before.

As people venture to the higher floors--whether intrepidly seeking the source or involuntarily herded onward by spirits--these moments will begin to last and linger and repeat. And those who don't dare venture higher won't be exempt, confronted by stronger spirits that emerge like ants from a kicked hive as the upper floors are disturbed.

As they approach the uppermost floor, reality will begin to slip away from them. They may find themselves lost in a maze of rooms, even though that shouldn't be possible in so few square feet, and ultimately enveloped in comforting worlds where they didn't do that thing they regret and that, like dreams, feel real until they suddenly don't--until something is too unbelievable, until someone interrupts, or until a demon is holding them under the water of the warm bath they were tempted into, shoving them off a balcony, or whispering into their ears and minds, let me in and you can keep it.

The hauntings will continue until morale improves the eldest, most powerful demon has been dealt with.

THE END

When it ends, it ends abruptly. Weaker spirits vanish; stronger ones retreat into the dark. The lesser demons on the upper floors linger, and some may put up a last-ditch physical fight, but without their superior, they've lost most of their mental pull and emotional sway. The castle has changed, too. Its abandonment no longer looks so recent. The food and firewood is gone, along with any sense of warmth or satiety anyone used them to acquire earlier. There is dust where none was before, mildew and rot, and a few scattered, unfortunate skeletons.

The sun is not quite up, the sky a faintly luminescent grey. But the weather is survivable, though it will be slower travel than it would have been without the fresh snow. The doors will open, and the portcullis will raise. Everyone can set off on their cold, hours-long journey back to the city. Talking about their feelings or avoiding eye contact the entire time: the choice is theirs.

Comments

gwenaëlle baudin.

[elegiaque]

( hmu keanuleaves if you'd like a tailored starter as i won't be doing open threads ♥ )

abby.

[elegiaque]

Emeric Vauquelin, Comte de Vauquelin, was as imposing a man as his daughter is slight; he stood north of 6', broad-shouldered, sporting the same aristocratic nose and sharp jawline that his only acknowledged child inherited (and—so did the other one), still leanly muscular as he approached his sixties with hair that silvered in a sort of handsomely distinguished way. He is standing in the hallway now, torchlight flickering on the gleaming gold and silver embellishments on his cloak, his pristine—

no, it is not pristine, this fine Orlesian uniform he's wearing. Gwenaëlle is standing in the doorway, disoriented, and Emeric is holding her shoulders, touching her face, standing in a pool of his own blood.

His voice is rich, and deep, and kind:

“Ma petit, I have a duty.”

“And you had rather run away to die than face it—” comes abrupt, furious, frustrated, falling in spite of herself into not only familiar patterns but walking grooves she has walked before, speaking words she has spoken before, only before he had not said,

“Ma belle princesse, would you have me stay?”

and blood drips, drips, drips.

byerly. cw: some body horror

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle does not, at first, verbally acknowledge the elven woman following her. They're roughly of a height, roughly of an age — it's hard to tell, not only because what does your entire twenties even look like but because of the way she seems to warp somehow whenever it's Gwenaëlle looking directly at her. Her features are softer when she isn't; sharpen into certainly, she must be older than Gwenaëlle when she is—

Melt, slightly, half of her face sinking into her skull, her eyeball whitening, the skin breaking and bubbling and then softening, unbroken and clear-eyed but pale from blood loss, the sword-blow never quite sure where it lands upon her body. When she speaks, it isn't one voice but two, blurring in and out of harmony with one another, similar but not the same:

“We're dead because of you.”

Her jaw sets. She's walking, purposefully, in any direction that Alix and Magalie are not, which right now means directly into Byerly's path, the half-unseeing kind of walk where what she's looking at is so much less important than what she's trying not to.

“You and your father ruined everything.”

astarion.

[elegiaque]

None of this ever happened.

Neither Alexander nor Asher were ever at the Gallows; if pressed, Gwenaëlle isn't sure they ever met. Well — Alexander knows Yngvi and Gunnar, so the likelihood that they crossed paths is not zero, but it isn't as if Asher had been a common subject of conversation between them. Immediately after his death (because he is dead, he is gone, he is not real—) she hadn't wanted to much discuss him, not beyond the wake at the hold. Now, sometimes, but...

So this isn't real. This isn't the Gallows courtyard, that can't be Asher, and there's no reason for him to be testing the weight of a weapon in his hands while Alexander fussily adjusts it—

And if they ever had met, she's almost certain they weren't in the habit of standing that close to each other, the casual intimacy, the familiarity. None of it makes any sense, until Alexander catches her eye and lifts a hand, a wedding ring she's never seen before glinting in the light, a warm look on his face. He starts to speak, and she starts to back up.

Because it isn't real. And she wants—

petrana de cedoux.

[ipseite]

( hmu keanuleaves if you'd like a tailored starter as i won't be doing open threads ♥ )

bastien.

[ipseite]

A courtyard. In the center of it—a great stone monolith, old and charred a good halfway up its height, even above where the manacles attach. It stands within a blackened pit, long since cleared out of ash and bone but past the ability of anyone to return to some pristine condition short of using magic. And wouldn't that be some sort of magnificent irony,

“Why have you not torn it down?” the man at her elbow asks, his hands clasped behind his back, only a hint of how discomfited he might be by the sight in his stiffness. He is as pristine in his blue and gold uniform as the pyre-pit is not, his silver-streaked dark hair neatly braided at his back, the sword in his belt too workmanlike not to be somewhat at odds with the formal nature of his uniform.

It is not a decorative sword. He is not, despite the uniform, a decorative man.

Petrana, holding her skirts from the ground as if they are worth a good deal more than they are in truth, finds herself answering— “I would not forget it, Davidias. What difference between me and the women who burned here?”

He keeps his gaze fixed forward. “They chose.”

“Did they.” She remembers this conversation. This is not how it went. They were never so honest with one another; they could never have been. Every wall with ears— “No more than did I, I think.”

“My empress, I mean no disrespect.”

“Do you think a choice that leads to such a fate is a choice that one ever makes freely? If I had gone with you—”

She takes a breath. “You aren't real, Davidias, I can't even know if you're alive. I should have asked her. Ma dauphine.”

tony stark.

[propulsion]

ota.

[propulsion]

PERIPHERAL;

Whoomf.

A flash of green energy rattles glass in wooden panes, kicks up dust, kicks curtains up as if caught in the wind, but ultimately, nada. Tony lowers his hand, moving up on the window to inspect the complete absence of damage, pressing on winter-chilled glass, rattling the lever that should crank it open if it weren't stuck tight, as if rusted, or iced. After a moment of putting all his weight down on the lever, straining, he loosens up from it, stares at the glass too murky to see through clearly, if there was even anything to see.

Tony leans in to the window and breathes a cloud onto the glass, and then, fingertip squeaking along the surface, he draws a sad face.

"Well, that was plan A, B, and C," he says. "I guess we live here forever now."

"But you can't," is a spectral voice, mouse-like in its smallness, a little girl's, originating somewhere down near where his hand dangles. He feels something at the same time, little fingers wrapping around his own in a way that's so familiar and so out of place that his involuntary response feels like electrocution, yanking his hand backwards and backing away from

emptiness, nothing. But anyone looking on might have seen, for the moment, a child-sized figure in the shadowy room, the hazy glow of nearby lightsources reflecting off dark hair. His expression has changed, more definitively spooked than it was a moment ago, looking down at his hand, looking around him.

[ ooc ; plan here is to intensify ghostly presence throughout, and feel free to bring your own to the party. ]

FOREGROUND;

It feels like the only way out is through, and Tony's never been good at staying in place, whether or not he's in his element. There is only one spirit interested in dogging his steps, it seems, which is impressive; maybe he should have more regrets than he does, maybe he's cauterised enough of them that he hasn't made himself too easy of a target. By the time the night draws later and later, and the forward team move up higher and higher, he knows this spirit's face.

Find him stopped at a staircase, looking up at a figure sitting there. She's little, in soft pyjamas, holding a stuffed elephant under one arm. Her smile is small, eternally impish, dark hair unbrushed. Tony speaks first, says, "Hi peanut. It's past your bedtime."

"That's not invented yet," she says, voice high and quiet, shivering through bone.

"I'm inventing it," he says, and starts up the stairs. "I already have. Patented bedtime starts now."

She laughs, getting up on her slippered feet, but where Tony would expect Morgan Stark to come racing down to get scooped up, she turns, and runs up into shadow, vanishing into it. He grips the railing, white showing up in his knuckles.

Or find him standing in the doorway of an empty room that looks like it might be a somewhat meagre guest's quarters, a bed and a nightstand and a chest. Sitting on the ground is Morgan, overalls and daisy-patterned T-shirt, hair in a braid that's already started coming undone. Her focus is not on him, but a scattering of legos in front of her. Nimble fingers are constructing a building, something that could almost be the Gallows, if the Gallows were made of large bricks of red, yellow, blue.

Tony's leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. Peaceful, nearly, as he watches her, quiet fondness. Love, obviously, but as a more hidden ache. He knows a familiar compulsion, to go in and join her, help her build. It's one of his favourite things to do. He stays, tells himself: walk away. He will. Just give him another second.

Or find him anywhere, because she will too, eventually.

[ ooc ; use a prompt above or just find him wherever! i don't mind repeating stuff so do whatever moves you. ]

FULL FOCUS;

The world has fallen through the centre of itself, and time and space have stretched as far as a mind can reach. He opens and enters through the front door to his lakeside home, humble wooden walls and domestic clutter and simplicity belying things like the generous scale of it, the smart technology built into the walls that regulates temperature and will detect any possible security threat from miles away, the kind of peace he can afford.

A woman, strawberry blonde hair, comfortable cardigan and bare feet, sets aside the book she was reading. Her smile is broad she crosses the room to Tony, enveloping him into a hug, a reunion kind of hug. "You made it," she sighs into his shoulder. "You came home."

"Always do," Tony says, but his attention focuses on another figure.

Still diminutive, is Morgan Stark, but three years is a massive transformation in childhood all the same. "Dad?" she asks, but her smile is big, hopeful. Pepper releases him, giving him an encouraging nudge to step forwards, which he does, as if pushed. It doesn't matter, Morgan running forward to hug him tight.

He lets out a breath as if he'd been holding it, hands hovering, then landing. Bowing down enough to folding her into him, to kiss the top of her head, a knee hitting the floor in half-collapse.

[ ooc ; this one is more of a battle of wills between buying the delusion or not. just one thread for this pls. ]

james holden.

[acreage]

ota

[acreage]

REMEMBER THE CANT

He's walking down a long, stone hallway when it happens. Someone materializes in his path: a vaguely human-shaped outline that looks almost like a smudge in reality before resolving into a pretty blonde woman.

Holden stops in his tracks, paling.

When she reaches out as if to lay a hand on his face, the motion is well-practiced. Familiar.

"Jim," she says like in his memories, in his dreams, "there's something you should know." The real Ade Nygaard died before ever finishing that sentence. This woman seems to say, sweetly, "You killed us all."

He jerks backwards.

Sometimes it's a middle-aged man wearing a captain's badge. Sometimes, a nervous, twitchy young man. In truth: there are a lot of options, possible faces. More than fifty, and James Holden remembers them all.

MILLER LITE

The next voice is masculine, older.

"As the resident expert of getting killed by you, kid, she kind of had a point."

This apparition seems to startle Holden less, strangely. The man looks to be in a pretty haggard forties, all dark coat and hat like he walked out of a noir film.

"I didn't kill you," Holden protests this time, aggrieved.

Miller's mouth scrunches as he wobbles a hand, so-so. "Bang up job you did of saving me, in that case."

That lands, flickers across his face, despite every word he's heard by now about spirits in this castle. Which is how he rallies, "You aren't even really here. I know you aren't."

"Yeah," Miller agrees, "you would. You were there both times I died. Well, more or less."

HERE TO HELP

Or maybe you're caught in the clutches of memory, only to find hands on your shoulders pulling you away from, say, an open window.

"Hey," he says with urgency, putting himself in the sight line of whoever he's talking to. "Look at me. This isn't real."

Sylvie Laufeydottir

[apocalypsegrown]

❆ Oh the weather outside is frightful:

[apocalypsegrown]

It would figure that her first mission out 'scouting' would end up like this, pushing her way in through the foyer of the castle with the others, shrugging snow out of her hair and off her shoulders before stepping inside. It's certainly less traumatic than having a whole building collapse out from under you, so despite how...inconveniently convenient this castle is, Sylvie is thankful for the warmth inside. Well, relative warmth.

It's actually pretty amazing how cold humans can actually get, and she's beating her arms and hands trying to warm them, stripping her gloves as she butts in next to another who is already huddled in front of the fire. They're slightly warm already from the fire, and significantly warmer than she is. No harm in pressing up shoulder to shoulder as she sticks her hands almost uncomfortably close to the flames.

Dante Sparda

[rebellionyell]

OTA - all of these voices inside of my head

[rebellionyell]

Dante had a map, a reasonably detailed map, but happenstance is how he finds his way to the rendezvous point because snow is distracting even if it is a whiteout. One's priorities must be to pause and cobble together a snowman or take advantage of the powder for snowboarding until one's nose is desensitized enough to refocus one's priorities. Eventually he trudged his way to the stronghold where it's decently fortified, warm enough, amply supplied, and questionably empty. Now Dante might not be the most pedagogical of souls, but he like to think years of experience in dealing with the supernatural had instilled enough intuition and practical intelligence to be skeptical and pragmatic (even if he did meander the place with his defenses down).

Who knows, his gaffing off might be the reason why, perhaps others had arrived before and managed to doll the place up before he got here. Unless they arrived with furniture strapped on their backs along with bundles of prechopped firewood then he highly doubted it. It was possible, but very unlikely and considering he hasn't collided with any of his fellow denizens yet then he felt justified in clinging to the notion that something about this entire setup reeked. This was reinforced by the fact that none of the previous entries worked as an exit and any effort to force his way out was futile, even for him. He was rewarded with bloody knuckles and obstinate doors and windows that were clearly mocking him.

And not in a metaphorical way as a voice soughs it's way from some dark alcove.

Why do you refuse to gain power? The power of our father, Sparda.

Now there's a voice he hasn't heard in a very, very long time...how many opportunities did he have to kill the proprietor of that voice and he didn't? What a mess.

"Father? I don't have a father," Dante parroted back words he's also spoken before, "I just don't like you, that's all."

Didn't like him enough to let him live, to cry over his loss, to allow him to become a monster.

Foolishness, Dante, foolishness. Might controls everything, and without strength, you cannot protect anything. Let alone yourself.

Dante let that hang in the air for a moment, looking down at his gloved hand, recalling how many times his twin had skewered him, before turning to the shadows.

"Remember what we used to say?"

He extended his arm, fingers taking the shape of a handgun before he mimicked firing into the shadows.

"Jackpot."
Jackpot.

And like miasma banished by a strong gust the voice melted into the other eerie noises common in most other haunted castles, granted this would have to be his first one.

Hitching up what few belongings he has on his shoulders, Dante withdraws into the belly of the beast his footsteps echoing off the wall as he falls back to the great chamber stopping only to give the cheery fire a look of dissent before dropping his attention to the chessboard. He didn't know or really care whose game it was. If ghosts were playing then what were they going to do, throw more Vergil at him?

Maneuvering the black knight he took a white rook, removing it from the board with a half grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

"My tower now."

Is he talking to anyone in particular? Is he challenging someone? Who knows.

[He's been out in the snow too long, he's hallucinating, or maybe you're hallucinating, they can hallucinate together or maybe poke fun at each other's hallucinations. Vergil sounds like a supervillain, he knows.]

Loki Laufeyson

[icasm]

[ if you would like something bespoke please hit me up at spacewitchery! ]

in the beginning; ground floor

[icasm]

There's several of them in this abandoned... chateau? Castle? Keep? Loki isn't sure about the details there, and the weirdness of it all —the discarded chessboard in particular— has him a little on edge. Perhaps that's just the implication of closer quarters overnight with people he doesn't necessarily get along with? Or maybe it's just stress after Val Chevin and concern about Alexandrie's recovering status converging on his person in a way that causes him to feel...

Antsy. To say the least.

He's currently trying to start a fire in the hearth of the grand hall where the offending chessboard had been left in a pristine fashion (who does that, who leaves a chess game with an incoming blizzard? In the middle of winter?) with his pocket lighter and some of the driest wood he could find, when a voice very clearly behind him says:

"What, brother, you've forgotten how to start a fire?"

Loki twists around in shock just as the wood ignites, but there's no one unexpected or even vaguely Thor-shaped behind him. He thinks that he spots his brother's visage in the nearby window which is...highly improbable, but when he stands to take a closer look he forgets that he was crouched in a low space and smacks his head, hard, on the stone of the arch above the hearth.

"Fuck," he hisses, rubbing at his head, before looking around at anyone that's turned to see what he's cursing about. "Did anyone else hear that?"

[ feel free to bring your own ghosts to this party; open to all ]

Byerly Rutyer

[bouchonne]

ota: weak spirit

[bouchonne]

"Did you get anything, Rutyer?"

The voice is Fereldan-accented, calm and even. Its source is a glimmering shadow, faintly man-shaped, not a complete creature. It speaks again:

"Did you get anything, Rutyer?"

And this second time, the intonation is identical, the inflection, the easy calm. This second time, though, Byerly's reaction is different; where the first time, he hadn't flinched, he does this second time, turning with a twitch towards the spirit. Still, he stays silent, even when the spirit speaks once more:

"Remember who you serve."

Ellie

[notathreat]

[Starters go here. HMU on disco for bespoke stuff! Unprotagonist#1974]

OTA: On The Outskirts | cw: torture, gore, death

[notathreat]

It starts with the taste of snow in the air. Sweat and horse and the dregs of a fire. And then, it's the things that can't be explained by the surroundings of the estate.

Scorched flesh. Raw meat. The tang of metal and seawater. Gunpowder.

It's faint, at first. Glimpses out of the corners of eyes. Reflections in the mirror. A man, bearded, gone to silver at the edges, who smells of wood shavings and gun oil and blood. Who has his head caved in, horribly, on one side.

It's his voice that's more prominent, though. Cries and grunts of agony. The dull snap of bone. The sound of someone being slowly, slowly beaten to death.

Ellie's gone pale, her eyes fixed on nothing. She doesn't comment on the voice, but she has her knife out, her knuckles white around it. Every breath is barely there, a shivering whisper. Like someone struggling to wake up.

boss fight; closed to Alexandrie & Sylvie

[icasm]

Here is what one sees when they enter the room Loki is in, at the top of this tower:

Loki, standing in the middle of the room, breathing hard, eyes shut. One hand is over his left ear; the other holds a dagger which he turns over and over with his fingers but never points in any particular direction for very long.

Before him stands a woman all three will recognize: Frigga. She has her hand extended towards him, but occasionally flashes to a body on the floor at his feet, when the dagger is briefly positioned towards her. It's all a little dizzying, certainly.

Her voice is steady, however, beseeching Loki to listen.

"I could take you far away from here. To a world where you never fell from the Bifrost; to a world where you were told who you were from the start. To a world where you never attacked Midgard, to a world where your mother lives on.

Don't you want that, Loki? Don't you miss your mother?"

His left hand moves from covering his ears to his eyes. He doesn't move or say anything further, but his shoulders are shaking and it's clear, even though his back is to the door, that he's crying.

[coquettish_trees]

Frigga.

The Lady of Asgard looks a little different than the Lady known to Alexandrie, yes, but it’s her. Or, it appears to be her, until the moment Alexandrie registers what is being spoken, to whom it is being spoken, the shake of Loki’s shoulders—

“Change your seeming.” Her voice from the doorway is low and clear and clipped, with all the frozen threat of river ice cracking underfoot.

“You will not wear her face, nor use her voice, to prey—” Spat, more venom than word, “—upon the son she loved so well. You desecrate her memory and I will not have it.”

It’s spoken as if a mortal mundane woman’s voice carried power here. As if— in a simple dress cut to allow for arm and shoulder tightly bound to cushion burn, to make stable what had broken— her body could force anything at all. There is nothing in Alexandrie’s form or face as she stalks slowly into the room but a cold and steady fury pointed towards the thing that dares hurt where she loves— one too absolute to allow for fear to sneak in past it— backed by a will forged of something far past iron.

No. No, no, no.

emet-selch - canon spoilers in threads

[arkitect]

[just separating out into individual comments! hit me up at probabiliteej if you want anything tailored or spoiler free.]

lower levels;

[arkitect]

He is followed by things that are, but aren't quite, ghosts.

Here and there, wherever Emet-Selch goes, there will be two or three masks of various designs following him, floating in midair. Lingering close as if reluctant to be too far from him, and whispering in an echoing language that somehow can still be understood.

"Where have you gone?" one wonders aloud, soft, mournful. "We yet linger," says another. A third, harsher: "What of your duty? What of us? You return to the aetherial sea, and yet we remain."

He does his best not to listen, carrying on with his exploration, but there is a weight to his bearing that doesn't ease. "Do not mind it," he mutters, if he finds he has company.

Julius

[overharrowed]

[OTA starter below, but hmu at prettiestwhistles if you want something bespoke]

OTA - feel free to byo ghosts or not, as you prefer

[overharrowed]

Loads of people have had an experience with a ghost (early)

While many Riftwatch agents find the tower reminiscent of the Gallows, it can't help but remind Julius of Kinloch Hold, especially when voices that belong there fainly begin to echo around corners. It is, perhaps oddly, easier when the voices belongs to those he's certain are dead.

Circle mages are trained to know when they're dreaming; this isn't that. He's reasonably sure. At least this far down the tower, he's also not tempted to mistake spirits' tricks for anything but that. He keeps moving. The healing stitches bother him more than the voices, at first.

Still, it isn't pleasant when he glances in an open doorway and catches a faint glimpse of an elf in mage's robes, sitting by the window and paging through a book. He looks up when Julius pauses in the doorway and brightens, solidifying slightly as he does. The first time he says Julius's name, it's clearly a greeting; Julius doesn't return it before turning away to keep moving, his expression somewhat more set. The second time, it's a question, a call, but Julius doesn't turn back.


You can't haunt another ghost (later)

The man who is suddenly walking with Julius is a handsome Marcher in his mid-30s. A looker-on might even recognize him; Laris Esser is a merchant who has done business with both the Inqisuition and Riftwatch, on occasion. The look he's giving Julius is fond and not even particularly intent, but there's a certain weight to the words when he says, "You're thinking about turning around and going back, aren't you?"

Julius's shoulders are, unusually and involuntarily, a bit tense. "This isn't amusing. I don't know what you think you'll achieve."

Laris looks nonplussed, faint lines across his forehead suggesting a face shaped over time more by curiosity than by anger. "You're avoiding the question."

"I did, that time." Julius stops and turns. "Now I am not bothering to answer a stupid and irrelevant question posed by someone wearing my memory's face. Stop it." Of course, now he's engaging, and that's not ideal, but on the other hand, his patience is wearing thin. That, or the ghost scored a palpable hit.

Wildcard

[Knock yourself out.]

Bastien

[cozen]

Please feel free to B.Y.O.G. to any of these & hit me up @ circuitry if you want to discuss anything!

early.

[cozen]

He's looking for spirits.

Not that kind. He's scanning a shelf of bottles ranging from clear to nearly opaque brown, some with paper labels and some without, each filled with a promising amount of clear or amber liquid. To warm up, see?

"Maybe we take everything we can carry," he proposes to whoever has been roped into this mission. "We can always, uh."

He pauses at the sound of a whisper. But it's indistinct, so small and distant it could easily be someone else from Riftwatch passing through the corridors outside the storeroom. He starts again.

"We can—"

"Vous avez vu mon fils?" This one is louder. This one sounds like it's coming from behind the shelves. The Orlesian is inelegant. Marcher-accented. It used to make Bastien grit his teeth. Now it makes him stop breathing, during the pause where a surly pack of Royan teenagers had once said non and ça fait des semaines. Here it is only a stretch of silence, before the first voice is back. "Fine. Fine. But— Dis à lui nous n'attendrons pas."

Bastien doesn't waste time believing it's not possible. But after waiting a few seconds to be sure there isn't more, he does step stubbornly forward to grab bottles by the necks and hold them toward his companion, saying, with his chronic calm, "Demons can't possess liquid, right? That is not something that happens."

jone | ota.

[poleaxed]

(a.) Jone arrives tired and cold. She spends far too much time in the barbican, checking the integrity of her armor and making sure nothing is frostbitten. Her hair is a severe knot behind her skull, her skin is paler than usual, her eyes-

Her eyes flicker to the inner recesses of the castle. A voice calls, clear as a bell. "Come here," it whispers, in an accent that matches Jone's. "I've a secret for you."

She grunts, and stands. "In for a penny..."

(b.) There's fire everywhere. Those familiar with Denerim-- the old Denerim, before the Archdemon-- may be able to recognize what hides under the shape of the flames. To Jone, it's home. She's been back since, and all the roads are different, houses rebuilt. This, now, this is the home of her memory. It will live in her forever.

A darkspawn stands in the flames, impervious to their heat. At least-- it looks like a darkspawn. It looks like the sort of darkspawn one dreams of, if they've never seen a darkspawn. Too tall, too human, too much in common with the jagged cut of Jone's own face. A mirror image, distaff and horrible.

Jone, who protests always her own bravery, sometimes percussive, is petrified. She scrambles on the ground, unarmed, shaking. The darkspawn takes a step forward, and she shuffles back.

"You deserve it!"

The sound bounces off stone, not burning huts. The clatter of metal scrapes where wood should be. This is false, but Jone cannot see it.

(wildcard.) [I'm up for anything o/]

b

[armd]

It isn't her memory, the heat doesn't scare her when it swallows them whole. They're high in the tower now, enough that the illusions have grown bigger than see-through ghosts and strange whispers and no inch of this scene is familiar to Abby, not the darkspawn; Denerim; Jone, when she's scared.

The fear is palpable, and it seizes Abby for a moment in uncertainty. None of her ghosts have tried to hurt her physically yet, and until now, she assumed that they couldn't. This would be a rotten way to find out otherwise.

"Jone," she croaks, trying to draw her attention, bring her back even an inch, "Jone, what the fuck is that??"

Abby

[armd]

(Open and closed to follow. If you'd like something else, feel free to poke at me blisters!)

OTA, Corridors

[armd]

She's had a valiant and necessary go at the portcullis, an 'out of the way let me try' thing that doesn't work any better than the other efforts on it have. To be fair, one arm is still quite stiff to move where the bone is healing, but it's doubtful two fully functioning arms would have done any better; best to let her keep her pride. The ravine canvassing the path to the walls and stairs is given... a few choice words.

They're very stuck. And Abby is wondering if there isn't something else they can do to break the door down, when a gentle voice offers a little encouragement: "May she guide you."

Her head whips around, braid smacking against her neck.

Only other Rifters, milling.

"... Did you hear that?" She whoever's nearest, suddenly uncertain.

Tiffany Hart || ota, bring your own ghosts if you want to

[fairforce]

old winter night.

The castle is cold. And here on the stairs, it's colder. This is the kind of cold that settles inside of you, freezes deep in your bones and bleeds all the warmth out of your fingers. And it's dark--dark like the winter night, and then a shade darker still. And the stairs go up, but they go down, too--down, down, into that darkness, spiraling tight like the curve inside a conch.

The old knight looks over his shoulder. His nose is touched raw red, the very beginning of frostbite, and there is ice in his beard and on the thick ruff of each silver-threaded eyebrow. His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. Blue, bright blue.

"Let's go down. She's what brought the storm. Ain't sense in delaying the inevitable, eh?" When he jerks his head--this way, silently implied--the image of him flickers. When he comes together again, he's fainter, less real. He takes a step down.

"Don't leave." Tiffany, higher on the stair, already with her sword in her hand. Her hair has snow in it too. Snow is drifting from somewhere high above. There must be a hole in the roof. But the cold is coming from below, seeping up, cold so strong it could crack stone. "Please, don't leave. Don't let him leave--please."

old summer day.

Nestor's nose is bleeding. It was bleeding the day that he left, so it's bleeding now. It was high summer, that day, and so there's a whiff of that season here where he's standing, as if he brought it with him. Something of the sun hot on the grass. He is waiting in front of a window three times his height. But he is tall for his age. Eleven, maybe twelve, face still boyish soft

Nestor wipes his sleeve over his nose with a small grimace, then holds out his hands, both of them. His fingers are long, fine-boned, but calloused. He didn't go to the Circle soft.

"I didn't go to the Circle at all." And the sun is coming through the window, bright and warm, and the rest of the room fills in around him--the carpet where the dog is sleeping, the hearth half the size of the door, the bookshelves in the north library with all of Grandfather's collection, as familiar as family members. This is a place you can stay, a place you can live. This is a place that is safe. You don't have to leave. No one has to leave. No one ever has to leave. Here is Tiffany, sitting in one of the armchairs, staring at the empty fireplace. It was too hot for a fire the day Nestor left, but he isn't leaving. And if you stay, you'll be safe, too.

to the rescue.

Generally, Tiffany keeps her head. That's what she always does, part of what she's been trained to do. In the dark scenes of the castle, if she needs to intervene, she will--a hand on the shoulder, a sidestep into a brutal scene to break its spell--or else a gentle reminder, "You can walk away," in case someone's forgotten. "You can walk away. It's all right."

Will they get out? They will. She'll give that reassurance too, if anyone needs to hear it. "If there was a way in, there's a way out. There's always a way out."

summer;

[illithidnapped]

Cozy. Cozier than all the other memories he’s encountered here, though there’s such a tarnish to the warm air that courses through, brilliant and bright as the midday sun. Like a picture that never sits quite right in its frame.

He intrudes, and it feels for all the world as if he’s walking on glass when his hands rest atop either side of the chair where she’s seated.

“Tempting.” He exhales, so far from being coy at the sight of the slighter figure standing at the window. Someone he doesn't recognize.

Someone the Seeker must.

Matthias || ota, bring your own ghosts if you want to

[inkindled]

early on.

Mages know the difference between dreaming and not. The way they train you early to tell it apart so you don't get yourself trapped--nothing formal for Matthias, whose education was in mud-spattered tents and on frozen marches between battlefields and danger. But he knows to look for the seams so he can pick it apart, keep himself safe.

So as the ghosts begin to appear--all ages, all sizes, some pristine and some spattered in gore and some barely there at all--he turns with confidence to whoever he's stood near.

"Want to have a bet?"

dead past.

Sunshine is spilling from an open door, and the floor of the landing here is softer with every step, stone that gives way to spring mud. Matthias, climbing the stairs, stops on the landing and grabs, blindly, for whoever he's with, intending to pull them to a stop along with him.

"D'you hear," he says, and then there it is, a distant tolling of a country chapel bell, somewhere far away.

Stretched long down the flagstones spills a black shadow. Difficult, at first, to make out. Dangling bare feet. Scrawny legs. A threadbare dress, Matthias already knows the color--brown, everything was brown in the village. The inky shadow of the crossbar, not a gallows but a tree in the field.

"It's not real." He says it, but Matthias is looking at that open door still. The creak of a rope, the tolling of the bell. "It's never real. I know it's not."

But. Like a hook in the belly. He stays on the stair.

deadder past.

It's not funny now.

"C'mon!"

The girl wears her long brown hair in two braids and when she turns to run, they whip round her. Her leather armor is battered and well-worn and a little too large so that it stands away from her chest like framework. There's mischief in her smile. And she looks real, and living, and whole, and leaving bloody bootprints on the stone floor.

"We've found a way through," she says. "They tried to hem us in from the east, the bastards, only there's a gap and we can make it if we're quick about it. The others are waiting for us but they won't wait long so we must be quick--"

Around the corner, then, and there's more blood with every step that she takes. The smell of it oils in with the smoke and fire and the odor of magic crackling like peppermint above it all. The girl stays just ahead, leading the way, and at the end of the hall is an open window with its curtains streaming in the cold chill wind. For a moment they look like banners, and grouped beneath them are more children in half pieces of armor--all of them fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years of age. All of them waiting.

early on

[armd]

"What kind?"

She doesn't recognise any of the gathering dead but Abby has a heaviness about her, the weary reluctance of somebody who has been figuratively haunted plenty, and would love if it did not become literal.

A distraction would be more than welcome.

Vanya

[wearyallalone]

[OTA starter below, but hmu at prettiestwhistles if you want something bespoke]

OTA - bring your own ghosts or not as desired

[wearyallalone]

The ghosts of my friends when I pray (first)

The first thing you might notice is that one ex-templar seems to be occasionally surrounded by (presumably current) templars, as if he was walking in formation with a squadron that only flickers into and out of view. Vanya ignores this (unless you draw attention to it). It's unnerving, yes, especially as he realizes the faces are ones he can recognize. But he's determined to stay focused.

What draws him up short is a shout, around a corner. "Did you hear that?" he asks whoever he's with. "That sounded like ... we should take a look."

I wish I could quit but I can't stand the shakes (subsequently)

At some point, Vanya gets seprated from the Riftwatch agents he was with. Whether he peels off or they did doesn't matter very much. Either way, he kept climbing on his own and now, now...

... now he is in a room, a very solid figure before him. A Nevarran man in his 50s with a commanding air. He's currently not in armor, but the insignia on his uniform leave no doubt of his allegiance to the Templar Order. His tone is that of a lecture, though not a dressing down, precisely. The frustrated air of a teacher who knows his pupil can do better.

"...and while it is not as if you injured yourself on purpose, I did think you had more discipline as to linger in a civilian's home, an apostate's home, while your brothers and sisters were in the middle of a war. You say you felt the Order needed reform. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps it does, but you can hardly reform it from exile, can you? If you think we're not doing as we're meant to, why didn't you try to stop it?"

Vanya, for his part, is on one knee, a rigid but controlled posture. He is looking down, and whether or not he'd tried to answer back before, now he is just listening. Absorbing. Nearly motionless except for the slight tremble on his exhale. The figure may expect an answer eventually, but not yet, it seems.

Wildcard

[Choose your own adventure]

Barrow

[thereneverwas]

medium difficulty

It's easy to insist that none of this is real when it's not targeting oneself, when the vestige of one's teenaged sister-- that can't be right, she's in her forties now-- isn't constantly walking ahead, looking back over her shoulder with a questioning smile and tears in her eyes.
Barrow eventually comes level with her, and the ghost's head dips to one side as though to rest on his shoulder, a little bouquet of flowers dangling from her hands as they sway in front of her.
"If I don't like it," she says to the ground as they walk, "if he changes, if he starts drinking. If it's scary. You'll come get me?"


nightmare mode

There's a table in some closed-off room, where Barrow sits with a half-drunk bottle of whiskey, completely entrenched in a game of Wicked Grace with a translucent company of what appears to be a few Circle mages.
"Fucking shark," he mutters with a rough chuckle, "this, this right here, that's why nobody trusts you lot."
The laughter that ensues, both from him and his companions, suggests no harm done, as he slaps down his hand in frustration.

nightmare mode

[muckspout]

Edgard, out of breath, opens a door to find Barrow.

"Barrow!" He shouts. "Are you al--you're playing cards?"

Only Barrow would fucking make friends with his ghosts.

Mado

[lumelume]

early on

Still being relatively new as an agent of Riftwatch and having little experience with this particular brand of encounter, Mado never stood a chance of understanding the break between reality and fantasy. Almost immediately he's lured away, to be found around some corner embroiled in a deep and clearly intimate conversation with the specter of a tall, ruggedly handsome fellow who wears a stringed instrument slung over his back.
The stranger has Mado pinned amorously to the wall on either side of his shoulders, and on the latter's face is a tragic sort of joy, this being a discussion he's clearly wanted to have for some time. They both speak in a quiet, but nonetheless passionate, Antivan.

towards the end

A large Dalish congregation has erupted into a roundel of linked arms and stepping bare feet, lively music playing unseen as they spin, weave, and laugh in what appears to be the greatest party any of them have ever encountered.
Mado is in the thick of it, his own shoes kicked off and resting near the entrance of the room, his laugh bright and his smile rapturous.
On one side of him in the dance is an elven woman about his age, with his same bright smile and bouncing curly hair, who grips his arm tightly and laughs in a delight that parallels his.

early on.

[cozen]

For a moment, when Bastien turns the corner, he thinks he's stepped in on two spirits. He recognizes Mado just in time to avoid spinning on his heel and walking the other way, away from whatever scene they're enacting.

It's still tempting, to walk away. Spirits give him the willies, and Mado seems to be enjoying himself. But—

"Amador."

His shuffle closer is reluctant, apologetic, and hunched.

"You can't stay here."

james flint

[katabasis]

Early; byog(hosts).

All fortresses, even the ones abandoned seemingly moments ago despite the layer of pristine and untouched snow draped over every exterior surface and pathway, are required to have a collection of maps and various papers and even the occasional book in them.

And so while fires are being lit in the grand hall's hearth, and storerooms and wine cellars are being raided, Flint and an accessory or two have found their way to the ancillary room which acts as the fortress' meager library. The already modestly sized room has been cramped close by the miniature labyrinth of deep casework required to house the collection of scrolls, and the heavy rounded quiet is punctuated only by the rasp of vellum and the unboxing of various closed containers as Flint patiently rifles through the archives for any cartography plotted in this Age.

"This may just be the storeroom. I've yet to see any map dated more recently than—"

From somewhere in the darkened room, there is the soft sound of a door's metal latch rising and falling. Perhaps an extra pair of hands has arrived to help with doing inventory.

Later; the great debate.

Archon Radonis is a singular strange figure to find here in the uppermost floors of the Gallows. He is wearing a set of enchanted manacles about his wrists to bar him from the use of his magic, but otherwise the great old snake appears to be perfectly content where he sits in a high-backed chair in the expansive meeting room

—Which exists, doesn't it? In one of the island fortress' towers. It must be there: a long cabinet room anchored by a great table (a map is ordinarily spread there, yes?), around which is arranged an assortment of mismatched but fine chairs, with room yet to spare for an audience to squeeze themselves into the margins. Long ago, the Gallows were built by the same empire that made Radonis, and such rooms are quite regular in the great administrative buildings of the Imperium—

despite the tumult unfolding about him. The room is crowded. The whole of Riftwatch (the Inquisition) might be squeezed into it, though its difficult to parse one voice from another or to pick out any body from the throng. A dozen different conversations (arguments) are occurring at once, and not a one of them seems to be ruffling the feathers of the once mage-ruler of Tevinter.

The pounding of a heavy metal pitcher on the table finally serves to quiet the room. 'Now,' is an absolute requirement for order spoken by some voice at the far end of the room. 'Let's try to conduct ourselves with a basic modicum of dignity. If you have something to say, then speak. If you have a question, ask it. But for Andraste's sake, only not all at once.'

"I have a question."

Flint isn't in one of the chairs arranged about the table. He is standing in the cramped margins of the room, close in what feels like shoulder to shoulder quarters.

"Can anyone tell me why the fuck we haven't cut his head off yet?"

Latest; pvp mode: on.

Expectations aren't so different from spirits. They lurk in dark corridors and quiet rooms. They manifest in the night to linger over insomniacs. They loiter at the edge of fraught conversations, threatening possession.

It's not just believable that it would come to blows. It's assumed, isn't it?

In the upper levels of the fortress there is a man wielding an ugly, work-worn sword. And while some spirits may be attempting to coax their chosen victims off balconies or turning heavy wardrobes over on them, others are pointing them in the direction of this bared blade. In the throes of the spirit, it's possible that Flint resembles any of a dozen familiar specters. He is some Templar from an escaped tower. He is a reprehensible cousin. He is a scheming courtier turned bloodthirsty. He is a Tevinter foot-soldier. Or maybe, to those aware of their surroundings or anyone who's already escaped their respective hauntings, he appears as himself.

Regardless, you're in his way.

Wildcard; mix n match/aftermath/whatever. go nuts, or hmu @ prosodi/on disco.

[luaithre]

Something's come undone. Time, space, and place. Marcus isn't confident as to when he was last dogging the footsteps of Madame de Cedoux and Enchanter Julius in their pursuit of answers, or how they became separated, but it isn't helping anything that when he turns, he sees neither of them, but he hears,

"There you are," a voice, familiar in its tone, nostalgic in its lively cadence. Urgent, too, some thread of tension strung taut through her words. Sima moves past him on light feet, her robes thrown on in a hurry, her dark hair in loose waves, glinting with early grey. She rushes down the broad hallway, and for a moment, grey stone and hard angles look very much like the Gallows. "If we're ever going to leave, it has to be today." She pauses, looking back at him. Not a smiling ghost, not a drifting phantom, but a harried, determined woman, her eyes alive with purpose.

Most striking is how she has no lyrium mark on her forehead. Most striking is how much she seems like herself. "You know what happens if we don't."

She slips out of view through the darkness.

A pause, and then slowly, as if walking through ice water, needling to the bone, Marcus pursues, drawing his staff from its harness with a slither of wood, leather, buckle. The shadows give as he nears, and he sees a closed door, and hears a voice on the other side. He grips the handle, levers it open, moves through with a rush of urgency.

And all at once, he's an intruder, the door striking the wall as he pushes it aside, bladed iron held downwards but gleaming. But there are multiple figures, disorienting after so many ghostly, empty rooms, and none of them wholly realised in his own sense of perspective, and none of them Sima, as far as he can tell. Coming into focus first is Flint, and Marcus pauses his advance.