faderift | MOD EVENT ↠ Nothing to See Here

Entry tags:

! mod plot,
! open

MOD EVENT ↠ Nothing to See Here

WHO: Anyone/Everyone
WHAT: Troubling observations.
WHEN: Mid-Guardian
WHERE: The Crossroads
NOTES: A mini-event! Feel free to use the Crossroads hazards for threads, get lost or trapped, or just ogle the new problem. If you want your character to do more than ogle, feel free to submit an info or plot request!

Traversing the Crossroads, popping from eluvian to eluvian until emerging elsewhere in Thedas, has become a routine part of many Riftwatch agents' work. It's not necessarily a pleasant one; anyone save native elves experiences the journey as disorienting and oppressive, with twisting light and a persistent distracting sound. Still, for reaching those locations and their immediate surroundings, it's faster than going by land or by sea.

But in Guardian, on one such routine journey, someone notices something wrong in the distance: one of the Crossroads' faraway crooked islands turned vaguely black in its center, with tendrils of darkness spreading like veins of mold over the stone, seeming to follow a waterfall (which is falling up, of course, because this is the Crossroads) to infect an island above it as well.

For the following few days, whenever anyone has time to spare, finding a way closer to that island is a top priority. It's not simple work. The Crossroads are a maze of crumbling ruins, and finding a way from point A to point B, even when point B is right there, is often a many-step process with disappearing stairs, puzzlebox locking mechanisms, and mazelike layers of half-destroyed buildings. Some eluvians are shattered or locked, and a necessary platform might ultimately only be reachable by lassoing a distant rock or, for the very daring, taking a leap far enough for a different pocket of gravity to snatch them out of the air and pull them to what now counts as down. And on top of that, several regularly traversed areas are populated by spirits that won't let anyone pass by unbothered.

As agents get closer and closer to the target island, things will only become more difficult. The Crossroads are already falling apart, but their disintegration seems to be progressing more rapidly near the blighted area—as it does become fairly obvious, even at a distance, that the blackness is the same substance that coats the darkspawn-infested portions of the Deep Roads and spreads through the veins of those who become tainted. Stone floors begin to give way beneath people's feet at a much higher frequency, and the rules of gravity and physics, artificially imposed by the Crossroads' shapers and now in disjointed disrepair like everything else, may change unexpectedly from one step to the next. In other places, mages may find the landscape as easy to alter as the raw fade, rock reshaping and elements shifting in response to their thoughts—though not their will, generally, in any deliberate way—with no ritual or spell required.

For obvious reasons, setting foot on the blighted ruin is a task only for Riftwatch's Grey Wardens—who, by the way, will begin to hear the song of the Calling as they come closer, and very loudly. But it's probably fine, and it will cease when they retreat from the area. But even from the safety of an adjacent platform, it will become obvious what everyone is looking at: a rift, pulsating and shifting, but filled with a dense, light-devouring blackness rather than the usual sickly green window into the Fade. The ruined structure surrounding the tear exhibits the usual ancient architecture of the Crossroads, where it hasn't yet been covered in blackness, but where it has, some of the walls seem to have been eaten away, replaced with new walls in new places. Some of them seem to be forming a doorway in the shape of a dragon. Past visitors to the Temple of Dumat may find it familiar.

This is obviously not great. But the least great part is that when they have reached the platforms nearest the blight-oozing rift, keen elven eyes—or anyone who uses a spyglass to help cut through the woozy shifting of the light—will be able to follow the direction that those tendrils of black seem to be flowing through the gravity-defying channels of water and spot among the constellations of further-flung ruins and platforms, in what would be the sky if the Crossroads had one, a second freckle of writhing darkness.

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"I think it's not being honest," he says instead. There's a difference, in actively lying and in not being honest (to someone else, to oneself), though he doubts that she has the patience for that kind of difference. "So in a way, yeah."

The path stays put. Maybe the forces controlling all of this don't care about the differences, either, but it is honest.

"Maybe you've been living saying 'no' for so long that it was like second nature to say so. Maybe you want that to be true, to be your reality. That's okay. Everybody lies."

Throw her a soft one, then. "Do you want to talk about it?" Three guesses and the first two don't count.

"Go fuck yourself." Turns out avoiding the question isn't lying! Maybe because, right about now, she'd really like him to go fuck himself. "Ostwick really needed a templar who'd wanted to talk about it?"

They'd made introductions to start with - traded names, discovered they were both templars, and so on - and now that they've gotten far enough for Kristin to get pissed, she's more than willing to throw everything they'd talked about back in his face. (What a fun gal.) He's not far off in his assessment, particularly the idea that missing nothing and no one would make her life a lot easier right about now; pity that she'd rather eat nails than tell a near-stranger.

The sort of thing he would only ever say to another former Templar, someone who doesn't carry it officially anymore, after saying as much to Barrow. There's an implicit understanding that it won't spread around, and he'd prefer to keep that part of his life to himself until it needs to come up. Just like he's not going to talk about Barrow or Ortega. That's up to them.

So having it thrown back at him stings. More than that, he feels a flare of anger in response to it. So he breathes through it. Makes a point of relaxing his shoulders. Everything about this place is already fucked up and weird; they don't need to make it worse.

"Other people needed a person to tell their troubles to." It wasn't that his skills in the interpersonal realm were needed in the Circle. But it really only got to flourish in Starkhaven. On the outside. "Some still do. Doesn't have to be me. And you don't have to talk about anything. It was just a question. There's no obligation."

Which is the least satisfying response she could possibly ask for. There's a moment, one she later thinks she might have imagined, when it seems like Mobius might give her the kind of argument she's spoiling for, and then it disappears.

"If there were, I still wouldn't." It's not something she means strongly, this answer that prickles with disgust. Not something she'd feel bad about later, either - probably. But everything's converged into one ugly moment, made up of near-death experiences and accusations of needing to talk to people and dizziness from this fucking place and home and loneliness and the itch that lives under her skin and whispers lyrium. "What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?"

"Isn't that a little childish?" If she gets to dodge questions, then so does he. Because that's definitely childish. He didn't press the issue even when he wanted to, so her going right for that, even for shits and giggles, is just...

Fine, okay, maybe this is how she's going to deal with the stress. Whatever. If he can't keep control of himself when his skin is crawling and there's the distinct feeling of Wrong, things won't end well. "I would prefer not to answer." Also true. So there. Circumvent some rules by exploiting technicalities. "And we don't have to talk at all." As in, say words, have a conversation. "So long as we don't know where this fun little effect ends."

But. If she's itching for a fight. Hm. He's not sure if he'll oblige.

"You wanna go through the rest of this in silence?" She doesn't say fine by me, because it isn't: it means there's no distraction from the way her vision wobbles in this fucking place. The Crossroads as a location don't want her here, but that's true of plenty of places in the world. Most of them don't have defenses against human templars coming to poke around, though. One sentence in Antivan, the next in Trade: "Shared misfortune, less felt.. What's your biggest regret?"

She's itching for something, all right. And Mobius' non-answers don't scratch it.

"You know, you could ask something a little less pointed. You want me to apologize for asking about home, or do you want me to apologize for implying you were lying about it? Because I'm sorry, on both, but it was an innocent question of curiosity." And on the latter, it was the truth. That her answer was a lie. Doesn't make her a liar.

None of which is an answer. Just, y'know, pointing out that this does not have to be a blackmail-gathering and/or impromptu therapy session. Fellow ex-Templar she may be, but that doesn't mean he has to trust her with his pains. The ground...wobbles. That's the only way he can think to describe the sensation, like it might about to become liquid, and yet it doesn't. He stops and plants his feet. Biggest regret? Where would he even start?

"That I couldn't stop it. Any of it. Not the war with the mages, not the Conclave exploding, not the Herald dying, not this war. That I couldn't keep the peace when that was my job." It's broad, sure. And there wasn't anything he could have done to stop any of it--probably. That doesn't mean the regret isn't there. He could have made different choices. If it made a difference to even one person.

There are other regrets. Plenty of them. More specific, with outcomes directly influenced by his actions. But the world around them seems to think that's an acceptable enough answer from the way the ground settles. He toes at the pathway ahead of him, and, satisfied, continues on. Does it feel like they aren't getting any closer, or is it just him?

There are all kinds of things she could do right now. Offer commentary on the weather back in Kirkwall. Ask him about something more benign. Apologize.

She pushes her hair back from her face, all the little strands that've fallen out of her ponytail. There's a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, a physical reminder that she's being unreasonable. Lyrium withdrawal. You're being an asshole for no reason. If it were possible to tell time in these fucked-up ruins, where the sunlight never seems to change in quality, maybe she'd know how close they are to one of her old dosage times.

He ends up answering her question. There's a barbaric sort of satisfaction at that: that she won their little standoff, that the scales are tipped in her favour now. He knows only that she wants her home back; he can't picture her mother's face stiffening in death, hands clawing like she might still ward off her attacker. But she knows what keeps him up at night.

"I regret that, too," she tells him, because on some level, she does. The murder of the Divine - and dozens of their brothers- and sisters-in-arms - had shocked them all. It will never be her greatest loss, but at the time, it came close. The war had made enemies of mages she'd been friendly with. And she still wonders how much of Elías' later troubles had started because of the Circles' dissolution.

She doesn't say anything else for the moment, though. The fucked-up island in the sky is still ahead of them, an impossible distance away. And the ground under them is solid.

So many people died. He hunted, killed mages that he knew personally, all at the behest of his commanding officer, while things had been chaos, and what was he supposed to do? Run away? Forget that now there were apostates, every last one who turned their backs on the ways of the Circle? The talks had gone so well to start with; Ostwick had its problems, sure, but it was a far cry from what had transpired at Kirkwall.

Could he have said something, done something, to change a few lives for the better? Convince Ravonna to back down, to change her mind? She turned into someone he couldn't recognize anymore.

"I left the order after the Herald died." She didn't ask, but he supplies it anyway. "I didn't understand the world anymore. How it all could happen, and how someone appointed by Andraste herself could succumb to mortal wounds. A world without Divine Justinia, Maker guide her way, didn't make sense. After all the slaughter on both sides, and then have one wretched false god of an ancient magister wipe out the numbers on both sides..."

He trails off. She might not care, might not want to know. But it's not something he talks about. The troubles he keeps close to his chest. He glances over at her, and the question he initially had on his lips dies away. Really looks at her and frowns.

"I'm told there's a lyrium stockpile set aside. For personal use." He's been there before. How long has it been since she's had a dose? She might normally be prickly to start with, but it might explain why she's being particularly sharp.

She listens, and it helps even out her temper. She listens, and while she does, she walks and breathes and tries not to let herself get seasick from the constant shifting of the world around them.

Mobius is one of them. Not a templar, maybe, but not not a templar. They might have left the order, but the order never actually left them. It's dogged their footsteps all this way, and it'll still be with them at their last breaths.

And maybe she'd say something in return, something in a voice that's gentle. She's capable of gentleness, when she wants to be. But he brings up lyrium, and Kristin goes right back to the realm of fuck off. "Not interested."

"Okay." Easy as that. It's a touchy subject even to people who are still Templars even now. It wasn't questioned, but once the effects became known...

Well, he won't grudge anyone trying to quit. He just can't imagine why, though. The chances of just going catatonic with pain and crazy, or dying, just seem too risky. But if it leaves one with a clear mind...

"Okay."

That's it. She'll bet money he still takes lyrium, and that's why he doesn't get it. He's a templar in every way but name. They walk in silence until the back of Kristin's mouth tastes like bile and a kind of impotent frustation comes off her in waves.

That's when she opens her mouth again. "You ever seen a man go mad from lyrium?"

"Yes." He's been around long enough, was with the order for decades. He's known people who had to be told to lay it all down and retire, or those who got reassigned something very simple, and he's known worse.

"I've also seen a man go mad without." A mild shrug of his shoulders. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't." They're all damned in one way or another.

She didn't expect a no. He's older than most she knew in the order, someone Kristin assumes will keep living until he keels over suddenly at the age of eighty-four - no pain, no warning. He'll have seen everything she has, and probably more.

"If I'm gonna go mad, it'll be me." It won't be someone feeding her lyrium while she sputters and demands to know who they are. "Not that shit."

The ground doesn't so much as wobble.

"Then I think it's no surprise to suggest you're strong than me, and I wish you the best of luck." He understands, in a way. It's not a great way to go, and every time he thinks he's forgotten something, misplaced something, every time he has to reach for a word, he has to wonder if it's just his terribly human mortal brain, or the lyrium. And he has to deal with the fact that he may never know. He might go downhill rapidly next year and have contributed nothing. He might last another couple decades of healthy clean living.

He might get stabbed by a zealot Ander or a crazed Tevinter or get a blast of fire to his back when his reactions aren't good enough. Might choke on a bit of chicken tomorrow.

"I've gone in and out. A few times. Resources stretched thin, supplier late or dead or what have you. I don't care to do it again if I can help it."

Kristin shrugs off the praise. It's fear and stubbornness as much as strength. Those experiences have caught her off-guard as well. They're what, in retrospect, should have tipped her off to Elias' downturn; he'd forget a face, get frustrated when the details of a case wouldn't stick in his mind. Whenever something similar happens to her, it's a cold hand grabbing her shoulder.

And it's nothing she wants to talk about right now.

"Fuck that." On this much, she can agree. In Trade: "You get off or you stay on. Back and forth will make you just as crazy."

"I heard that." Just because he doesn't speak the language doesn't mean that kind of cursed sentiment is completely foreign, whether from others saying the same in bad situations or just because that tone carries in every damn language on the planet.

"Hence why I'd prefer to stay on. I don't want to be there. I don't want to be--where you are, where you're headed to, depending on how long it's been. I at least got myself to the point where I don't have to every day. It's not great, but I had to learn to stretch the supplies I had before I got here."

It's tempting to start up again, every single day, that hit that soothes the itch that starts up after a few days without. But does he really want to rely on the kindness of the Riftwatch? What if something happens and the lyrium needs used for something more important than a couple of ex-temps with a habit to feed? Better to not think that way. It already makes him itch even when he doesn't feel the hunger. Probably the Crossroads playing tricks with him.

"I'm sorry," he says, quietly. Instead of asking the question, he's making an assumption. Which might be safer or might get his ass kicked. "For whoever you lost to it."

"I know you did." The whole point of swearing in front of someone else is them hearing it. Kristin wonders if he was the Maker's own water-carrier about things like these, back in his Circle, warning people off their smart mouths.

It seems possible, anyway.

For a minute or so, she thinks they might be in danger of having a pleasant (sort of) conversation. There's something about his thoughts on lyrium that she can respect, even if she still thinks little of the idea of staying on it. The fact that he's made a choice, not just succumbing to addiction, probably. But then, in what's starting to feel like a pattern, he says just a little too much.

"Shut up," she says, but there's none of her earlier fire. If anything, her voice has gone thick, the words quiet as she says them. She's intent on the horizon, or a horizon - in a land where the sky doesn't end, the edge of the path they're on will have to do.

Kristin swallows, making herself shed the entire conversation like she's shrugging off a cloak. (The truth is, it's still there. But she's not going to talk about it.) "Tell me a lie."

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MOD EVENT ↠ Nothing to See Here

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