MOD PLOT ↠ BEFORE THE GATES | OPEN LOG

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: A race to a Gate, with detours
WHEN: Late August to mid Kingsway
WHERE: Arlathan Forest
NOTES: See also OOC post, puzzle log.

Intel out of Hasmal and the Antivan borderlands suggest the enemy has abruptly changed gears, hurriedly redeploying most of the teams that have been busy combing the southern end of the Hundred Pillars north, to the edge of the Arlathan Forest. The only plausible explanation is that they've got a hot lead on another gate, more urgent than whatever they've been (so far fruitlessly) searching for north of Starkhaven. This provides Riftwatch with an opportunity to finally beat the Venatori to a Gate and prevent them from opening it—but they're going to have to move fast.

Helpfully, previous surveys of the Crossroads located an eluvian only a few hours' walk away that leads into the Arlathan Forest, so the enemy's head start in terms of travel time can be swiftly made up. The fact that the Venatori have brought so many of their search teams up from the south suggests they don't know exactly where in the forest the Gate is, but there's no telling what clues they might be working on and they out-number Riftwatch, so it's all hands on deck to scour the ruins strewn throughout the forest and find it first.

I. HOME BASE

The eluvian Riftwatch is using is located inside an expansive chamber, so cool, dark, and quiet that it might initially be mistaken for a cave. Or not even mistaken, exactly. It is both cavernous and underground. But when torches are held near the cavern walls, they reveal a wall within the wall, smooth dolomite bricks with large, arcing windows that frame nothing but sheets of limestone, both smoothed and in some places receding in rivulets where water has been seeping through for hundreds of years. Young limestone stalactites are beginning to creep in through the windows.

In summary: a room within a cave, scattered with ancient stone benches in various states of crumbling and more recent additions made of wood, cloth, and vine, all partially rotten. One of its two expansive doorways opens on a stone corridor, perfectly straight, between three smaller rooms. The smallest looks like a shrine, walls adorned with a crumbling mosaic of the elven pantheon. Another room was not always a bathroom, but in the past century or two someone has fashioned it into one, harnessing a rivulet that's streaming and seeping from somewhere beyond the cavern walls to build a stone bath reminiscent of a fountain, overflowing into smaller pools before the water is swept out of the room altogether by the stream's disappearance through the wall. The water tastes of limestone, but it's fresh and safe to drink.

This is where Riftwatch sets up its temporary base of operations for the search of the forest. Carting supplies across the Crossroads and replenishing them from time to time is simple enough. Someone even thinks to bring hay to spread beneath the bedrolls in one of the smaller rooms. The central chamber is lit by the glow of the eluvian, torches, and lyrium glowlights, ultimately bright enough to do paperwork. Some people make a routine out of doing their normal ("normal") work here, for the time being, to be on hand if there's an emergency or to save themselves the walk back through the Crossroads between stints in the woods. A map of Arlathan Forest—a bad one, at least at first—is spread over a wooden table that's gone soft and spongy with age and moisture; it wouldn't support a man's weight anymore, but it can hold a map and the markers used to keep track of which areas have been searched, where Corypheus' people have been spotted, and which landmarks seem promising.

The second doorway in the chamber opens to stairs. Stairs down. This structure was once above, not below. But two stories deeper into the earth, the stairs give way to a natural cavern, no sign of elven construction in sight, with a draft that guides visitors through a narrow passage and out into the forest.

II. CITYWIDE GREEN INITIATIVE

Arlathan Forest is not as tropical as the Donarks that Riftwatch found themselves stranded in a few years ago, but it is far enough north to be warm, humid, dense, and deeply green, home to a constant symphony of buzzing and chirping and squeaking and the occasional (hopefully) distant snarl or growl. Of particular note are the presence of alligators, jaguars, and small elephants, along with the usual collection of smaller wildlife and the elusive halla.

Wild as it is, the forest doesn't allow anyone to forget that it was once a city. In the heart of the forest the terrain is cliffy and jagged in a way that suggests that, rather than the city only sinking into the earth, the earth might have risen to meet it halfway: there are towering, sheer-faced rock formations that evoke the image of buildings several stories tall, now encased in stone and plant life. Sometimes a vine-covered fragment of roof- or tower-top emerges from the top of one of these rock formations, or an expanse of brick wall from the sides. They're all in an ancient elven style familiar from, if nothing else, the Crossroads everyone walked through to get here. The lower, marshy land between them–in some places occupied with streams or wider rivers–have occasional patches of tiled stone where roads once ran instead.

There are signs, too, of more recent occupation since the ancient city of Arlathan was swallowed by the earth. Forest-dwellers from within the last age have built walkways and bridges among the cliffs and rock formations that occasionally still hold up. They've left behind tools, collapsing huts, signs of occupation in caves, and occasionally a more recent skeleton or three. And there are rarer signs of the Dalish who still occupy the forest: arrows embedded in tree trunks, statues of wolves or other symbols of the pantheon, a few old abandoned camps, a damaged aravel.

III. MORE MAGIC MORE PROBLEMS

Of course, this is not a normal ancient city swallowed by the earth and left to become a wild forest over the course of more than a thousand years. It's a magical one.

Alongside the bugs and birds and creatures occupying the forest are spirits, in more abundance than most people have ever seen them. There are small swarms of wisps drifting like butterflies around objects of interest to them, and more humanoid, ghostly, temperamental wraiths drifting over marshlands. A very rare wraith will have a voice, a name, and perhaps an errand to ask or a bargain to make. Shades wait in caves, and demons of any kind might be discovered waiting for victims in the nooks and crannies of the woods–but in particular the sylvans for which the forest is known, which any traveler passing nearby is warned to watch for.

Less common are the Forest Guardians. Easily missed among the rocky, viney landscape until they begin to move, they're massive constructions of wood and stone, tall as golems, with vine-covered stone bodies, walking on four wooden legs bound to stone feet covered in runes and moss. They remain immobile until attacks on the forest (or someone drawing enough magical power to disturb the Veil) rouse them. Then they wake to hunt the perpetrators with two wooden arms that end in thick metal blades imbued with lyrium. The arms swing in predictable patterns–they're enchanted, not thinking. And with sufficient force, they can be "killed."

Between all of this and the unfamiliarity of the landscape, it may take time to notice the biggest problem of all, which is: time is fucked.

At its mildest, traversing the same ground might take an hour going one way but two or three hours going the other, as if it's stretched out somehow, despite no clear changes to the landscape to justify the added time. If there is added time? They may burn through rations and tire as if a whole day has passed, while the sun hangs unmoving in the sky or it stays dark for just as long, and return to the base camp to find they've been gone only a few days instead of the weeks they thought. And even a confident navigator may march confidently north for several hours before realizing they've been going south the whole time (or have they).

The effects become more severe the closer to the center of the ancient city one goes. At some point a team might find themselves going in circles no matter what they do to avoid it. And that's not the worst of it. If someone is inventive enough to begin marking a passed landmark with tally marks, they'll find the count flickering back and forth each time they pass it, requiring them to put the marks down out of order: their second time past the stone, then their seventh, then their fourth.

Their sending crystals work—erratically. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes with long waits between answering messages. Sometimes with responses to the five questions they asked in silence arriving out of order. To those on the other end–or those waiting for them when they arrive back at Riftwatch's underground base—nothing unusual will seem to be happening, and their trips back and forth no longer than expected.

And it gets worse!

Through all of this, visitors to the forest may begin to see themselves and others in their traveling party, some distance ahead or behind them–mirroring their actions, having conversations, before or after the real ones do or did or might have done the same. While you're not oblivious to them, they are oblivious to you–the best way to tell the real from the mirage. Except they are not exactly mirages. They affect the world around them. A bridge that breaks beneath their feet ahead of you will still be broken when you reach it; should you break the bridge, the copies behind you will stop at the destruction to plan another way around.

No one is bound to the fates of these forwards- and backwards-echoes: should a double fall off a cliff ahead of you, you can choose to be more careful or avoid the area altogether to prevent the same mishap. Attacking animals, demons, and enemies will see them, as well as you, and may be convinced to go after them instead. Or they may pick them off ahead of you, giving you some forewarning of what you're about to step into.

Despite their apparent solidity in these moments, they don't last. The branches they have bent will remain bent, their footprints will remain printed, and the debris that tumbles over a cliff's edge with them will remain piled at the bottom, but they themselves inevitably disappear when no one is looking. They're only people who might have been.

IV. THE AMAZING RACE

Anyway, Riftwatch didn't come here to hang out with possessed trees and walk in endless circles for fun. Teams are sent into the woods in specific directions or in pursuit of particular landmarks, combing the forest for signs of a Gate or the Gate itself. They may travel three or four days in one direction—three or four real days, however brief or long they feel to those doing the traveling—before reaching their destinations. Along the way they'll have to make and break camp in the safest places they can find, forage and hunt to supplement their rations, and keep their eyes peeled for the forest's other intruders.

Corypheus' people are here too. Venatori, Red Templar, or corrupted Wardens and various lackeys have fanned out within the forest, searching for the same things Riftwatch is. Intelligence indicates they don't know for certain that a Gate is nearby. Riftwatch would like to keep it that way, so the rules are a little different this time. They can't know that Riftwatch is here. Everyone who ventures into the forest will be required to dress like they could be hunters, bandits, or recluses. And anyone who could report that Riftwatch is there can't leave the forest alive, and they need to look like they've been killed by something or someone other than Riftwatch.

This could mean ambushes and traps, herding them into angry wildlife or forest monsters (or vice versa), arranging for mysterious accidents, anything that maintains the Venatori's illusion that they are in a one horse race to the Gate. And in the meantime, the enemy search parties need to be tracked, misled, and thwarted whenever possible, and any information they have—clues they're following, records of areas already searched, maps—stolen or, if that's not possible, destroyed.

Sometimes these plans will be complicated by the presence of time-rippling doppelgangers. Your team might agree to sneak up on an enemy camp in silence, only for copies of you who came to some other agreement, apparently, to launch a coordinated fire-raining attack in the background. Or they might be ahead of you when you sneak in, oblivious to your presence while they beat you to slitting throats or stealing notes. During firefights it may not be possible to tell whether the person you've just watched die is your friend or only one of their echoes. And Corypheus' people are suffering the same effects: a man you ambush on the trail might only be a double of the real man, arriving on the scene a minute later to see himself already dead on the ground, suddenly very on guard.

Comments

DALISH DIPLOMACY | closed to Edgard, Mado, and Thranduil

[faderifting]

When they first arrive, Riftwatch is doing all of their searching using a very rough, very broad map of the forest. But there may be a way to change that. Clan Myrlen (look, it's canon) reside in the area and are rumored to be the only people who regularly traverse Arlathan Forest and have perhaps even thoroughly mapped it. They may also be able to point Riftwatch in the specific direction of what they're looking for.

Riftwatch's attempts to track down and reach out to the Dalish in the region for assistance ultimately pay off, with a catch: a few scouts from Clan Myrlen meet them in a clearing and offer to arrange a meeting with the Keeper only if they demonstrate their reliability by solving one of the Clan's problems, classic DA sidequest style.

Specifically, humans from a village near Brynnlaw have been hunting unusually large numbers of halla on the outskirts of the forest. The Dalish have their own halla kept close and safe, but the forest is one of the few places in Northern Thedas especially where wild halla still roam and breed. Clan Myrlen has kept a tenuous peace with the humans for several decades now, under their current Keeper, and doesn't wish to return to the mutual hunting and torment that marked the period before. But if the halla hunting continues, angrier voices within the clan may win out.

While the Dalish don't expect to never have to deal with a stray poacher again, Riftwatch's task is to put a stop to the worst of the hunting—with or without violence, their call, but certainly without any violence that might be linked back to the Dalish and spark renewed hostilities. The culprits come from a village called Llangennech, west of Brynnlaw, and specifically from the de Fiedricis family. A little digging will indicate that they're very industrious with the halla they kill, leaving no part unsold: there's a healthy market for an exotic taste of halla meat and an even healthier one for the white hides, while the horns and bones are incorporated into jewelry and decor and many of the organs are purported to have medicinal value.

How Riftwatch's appointed problem-solvers solve this particular problem is up to them. Direct persuasion or intimidation are options. They could go the political route, reaching out to Riftwatch's allies among the Merchant Princes to either threaten the de Fiedricis out of their trade or offer them a new, more lucrative one. They could concoct an elaborate theatrical plot to terrify the hunters into believing a halla-protecting spirit will kill them all if they continue. They could arrange for some encounters with real, actual killer spirits. Or they could come up with something else entirely!

OOC | Regardless of what plan they put into action IC, your task OOC is to write a log about it (or about discussing what to do, or whatever part of this you find most interesting). Your success will hinge on whether you hit certain tag milestones:

• At five tags, Clan Myrlen will be willing to point Riftwatch toward the temple ruins that are ultimately what they're looking for, making beating the Venatori to it something your characters made possible rather than an accident.
  
• At ten tags, Clan Myrlen will be sufficiently impressed to give Riftwatch one of its maps of the Arlathan Forest—enough to help them find their way around now and later, should they need to return to the forest to look for additional ruins or artifacts—as well as the border region with Tevinter and some largely unknown routes in and out of the country.
  
• At fifteen tags, they'll be solid allies, willing to cooperate in the future to provide Riftwatch with intel about enemy activity in the area.
  
• At twenty tags, they'll have personal gifts for the three heroes who saved their halla.

[rowancrowned]

Llangennech behind them, the de Fiedrici family safely out of earshot, Thranduil leans against one of the trees marking the edge of the forest and does his very best not to sound completely exasperated when he says, "Ideas?"

[muckspout]

Edgard shrugs.

"We could ask them to stop?"

He points to Thranduil. "You look...official."

He doesn't know what that means either.

ANCIENT OUTREACH | closed to John, Florent, and Petrana

[faderifting]

Riftwatch has not been in the forest for very long at all before they're approached by an envoy of elves with vallaslin and fine armor, immediately recognizable to anyone who was present at the Arbor Wilds (or paid attention to reports about it) as the guardians of the Temple of Mythal, who were once defended from the Venatori and sent into the Crossroads with the Well of Sorrows in a bottle. They're led by Abelas, greeting anyone he remembers from that time by name, and Riftwatch is invited to send a few delegates to join the elves at their new home and discuss their mutual interests. In the meantime they've brought some gifts: arrows, food, advice on where they have seen Venatori creeping around the forest.

A few days later, the chosen delegation is escorted to the elves' new home, without any attempts to disguise its location. They're staying in a portion of the ruins not all that dissimilar from the chamber Riftwatch is occupying, partially ensconced in a cliffside. Some of the windows were not buried by stone but are instead hidden behind the gush of a waterfall, allowing some filtered, watery natural light into the largest of the rooms. The rest of the light is provided by an overhead glass chandelier that seems lit with sunlight rather than flames, with veilfire and glowing glyphs in the hallways that branch off into the stone.

They've made the place extremely livable. It's been cleaned out, repaired where necessary, and filled with freshly made wooden furniture and textiles where the old had long since rotted away. One wall is filled entirely with books, which they'll admit have been collected from both the Crossroads and from the libraries of a few humans who kept eluvians as conversation pieces in their homes. There's endless fresh water, thanks to the waterfall doubling as their curtains, and the table has been laid with a simple but obviously precious assortment of native berries, fruits, vegetables, delicately shaped breads, and cheese and butter they'll identify as coming from halla.

The conversation stays light. They'll express some unhappiness about the Venatori tromping through the forest, some interest in why they are here and what Riftwatch knows, but they'll not insist on being told anything and seem to not really want anything in particular except to have made contact again. They're very calm, but they do seem to be waiting for something. They have left the seat closest to the Riftwatch delegation open. And because he's a drama queen, Solas will wait until they've all sat down to talk and eat before he strides into the room and takes his place at the circular table.

"Hello," he says, while he's helping himself to a single berry. He's still dressed the same way anyone who knew him before would recall: simple clothes fit for a wanderer, none of the shiny armor the guardians wear. "I hope you had no trouble on the walk."

OOC | We'll NPC as much as we're able, but please feel very encouraged to post additional replies to this comment that jump ahead in the conversation, montage-style, to make sure you get to ask or talk about what you want without needing to wade through small talk and transitions to get there. We promise to reply to two (2) such jump-aheads for each of you.

[deuselfmachina]

Throughout the journey from one mountain-swallowed hideaway to another, Florent Vascarelle has kept up a pleasant patter of conversation. Not so much as to override anything that Madame de Cedoux or Monsieur Silver might have to offer, or even worse, prevent the elven guides from sharing anything of note, but it certainly fills the silence, as if to crush out any chance of tension. He asks a little of their names, their lives, reacts warmly and enthusiastically—and certainly provides more information about himself than is likely inquired about.

It might become apparent, deep into their hike, that as much as it is a fair and valid strategy to include an elf in their delegation, this one is very, you know. Orlesian. Frivolous, especially fluttery next to these stoic, armored beings. Embodying so much that the ancient elves are not.

Now, he sits flanking whichever of his other two colleagues prefers to take the lead, politely filling his plate with a diverse array of items. Dressed in clothes suitable for roaming in the forest, but still bright and colourful, his shirt very sleevey and his vest very patterned in rich peacock colours. He is transferring some soft halla cheese to a pastry when Solas walks in, Florent giving him a fast assessing once over—no familiarity, from him—and a glance to the other two Riftwatch members for an obvious cue.

He smiles. "It was very untroubled," he assures. "But far from boring. Everything is very beautiful, here."

[ipseite]

At the arrival of Solas, Petrana's heart sinks.

Her familiarity with the elven — elvhen, as it turned out — apostate was never great, nor particularly intimate, but even had they known nothing of who he is or what he might yet do and only his abandonment of his post, her strongest association with Solas is that of having selected for his closest confidante within Riftwatch a rifter who she trusts almost not at all with any interests beyond his own. Taken together it is far from encouraging that they might gain anything from this man,

there is nothing else for it but to try, regardless. Perhaps his interests sufficiently align that they may wring something from him, or at least some notion of how they might do so in future. Perhaps Thranduil can be prevailed upon in the future as a honeypot, albeit not one left unsupervised.

She shows none of this; she mirrors Florent's smile, pleasant, and says, “We were honored by your invitation,” smoothly picking up the thread, “and now, by your hospitality. We wish to be good neighbours, during our necessary presence here.”

marcus rowntree.

[luaithre]

II. CITYWIDE GREEN INITIATIVE; just chilling.

There's a river maybe half a day of hiking out from Riftwatch's home base, or, at least—it has taken them half a day, and it's impossible to gauge its true distance. This is how long it has felt, and how long the sun has apparently travelled in the sky, or near enough so as not to raise any suspicion.

But the river is a welcome sight. Humidity clings like wet cloth to skin, heat trapped amongst the dense trees, the over-oxygenated density of the air and the constant hum of forest insects and bird cry all oppressive enough that the soft sound of running water promises some welcome respite. It is almost lake-like in how wide it is across, shallow where the water runs white off of rock. Fish flash fearlessly beneath the rippled surface, plainly visible in the clear cool.

Marcus takes a knee at the edge of it, letting his mage staff drop and submerging his waterskin to fill it. This, too, is set aside in favour of simply scooping up water in his hands and splashing his face, letting it run down beneath his collar. It's only then that he notices, about three-hundred feet where the river bends off into the trees, the emergence of a cluster of small elephants roaming through the water.

An uncertain hand drops to the mage staff at his side as he stares, but that only takes a moment to relax. Slowly, he shifts out of his knee to sit on the bank, and watch quietly from this distance.

III. MORE MAGIC MORE PROBLEMS; the long midnight.

It has been—what, a week? A week in which the twilight has been held in suspension for at least a full twenty-four hours, before dipping down into a night that lasts twice as long.

It's during this unrelenting darkness that Marcus and whoever he is with decide to forge ahead, by now very low on rations and restless besides. Perhaps forward motion will push time along as its meant to. The pitch blackness of the forest is oppressive and thick, visibility so low that it's easy to imagine any number of threats standing barely a foot away from you, unseen and unheard.

In this instance, Marcus takes point. He holds his mage staff out like a torch, where the glow of the runes embedded in black iron offer a good ten feet of dim light. Occasionally, moisture drips from the canopies above, striking red-tinged metal and evaporating with a hiss of steam.

Then, he stops, lowering the staff sharply as if to inspect something on the ground.

0. WILDCARD ME; do it.

[ ooc ; feel free to sling me whatever kind of starter you like. Marcus is thrilled to do jungle adventures and is taking an excuse to do so, but can also be found resting at home base. i would also prefer one thread per prompt, but am a-ok with wildcard threads that kick off a similar theme (exploring forest, weird spooky time warps, etc). also hmu if you want something bespoke. ]

closed to matthias and derrica.

[luaithre]

Here is the camp, a small knot of Venatori and Red Templars both, robed figures and plate. Two large tents have been erected between the trees, and a campfire has been started. A man and a woman consult over scrolls while another sets up a pot for water, skewers hunted meat onto metal for roasting and sets it above the flames. There's a hush laugh from someone, and two more roam the perimeter to keep an eye out for dangers.

It is, on a human level, so much like a Riftwatch camp.

This is the kind of musing that only occurs at the very back of Marcus' mind, perfectly still in his hiding place, which is behind a thick cluster of dead tree fall. If one of the patrols thinks to check behind it, he will have enough time to move silently back behind one of the jagged rises of rock, and if necessary, do something more drastic to preserve his position. Crouched in place, his staff is resting lengthwise on the ground in front of him, wearing a set of pared down mage armor that's covered in the drape of rough-spun cloak. A few other pieces of forest green and earthen grey to make a convincing spectre of a forest bandit or recluse, at a glance. And hopefully a glance is all that will be needed.

Senses trained forwards on movement, the sight of flickering fire through the trees, any nearby sound more distinct than bird cries, he is also straining to listen out for something else. He imagines it will be chaotic, but just in case, he also has his crystal in hand, turning it between his fingers.

He is, also, alone, and waiting.

Derrica and Matthias are no longer in view of the camp, sent some distance north of it where all three had noted the dormant Forest Guardian in their scouting. Now, coming back to it, it's as imposing as it ever was, a golem-like massive figure of wood and stone, runes and moss crawling wet across its large four legs sunken inches into the soft forest ground. A colourful bird is currently resting upon one of its massive bladed arms, where some thin vines have tanged around it over time.

Their mission is somewhat straightforward, Marcus explaining it with the aid of drawing a rough map on a patch of clear earth: summon the Guardian to life, and lure it towards the camp. As soon as they're within view, they should fall back to a hidden position together while Marcus redirects the Guardian's focus from his position. They're to wait until his signal, and then engage.

The bird perched upon the golem raises its head to angle one beady eye towards the two mages, before dipping back down to continue to preen its long, red-purple feathers.

[inkindled]

Matthias' legs are sore from moving in a crouch to avoid being seen. His cloak is near enough to the color of the tree's trunks that he'd have done a good job of blending in without really trying, but it had felt important to try all the same.

The shape of the Guardian is craggy, a jumble of boulders tumbled down. When Matthias had first seen it, he'd mistook it for forest debris, hadn't realized what he was really looking at until he'd seen the massive blades. Stood before the Guardian, he plants his staff in the soft earth and commits some of his weight to it, staring fixedly up at the bird. With his mind he tries to will it to look up again. When it does not, he wills it to keep preening, and smiles when it does.

"Think a barrier would be enough to wake it? Or would that be too soft a touch?" he says to Derrica. They're a fair distance from the camp but he keeps his voice low all the same.

The bird stretches one wing in a graceful gesture, and continues its ritual. The curve of the Guardian's arm spandrels beneath it, hard angles turned soft and organic by the layer of moss and overgrowth.

just chilling.

[delphian]

The forest and the remnants of what it once was are fascinating — beautiful, strange, and the fade here offers glimpses of things that Tsenka has never entertained or imagined before, when she has a moment (or whatver a moment is, to this place—) safe enough to close her eyes and dream herself into its echoes. There are shadows here that stretch further back than anywhere she's walked waking or otherwise,

but today what most interests her is the other thing that all forests have a lot of: sticks.

As they've walked, she's tested the weight of various assorted fallen branches; carried one for a while, used it to poke through vines and brace herself while craning to get a better look at a swallowed up city, discarded it for another. She's choosing between two when Marcus takes a knee by the river, and waits patiently until he's sat, and it's going to be inconvenient to unfold himself back to his feet, and cracks him hard across the back of his shoulders with her best stick so far.

The Venatori may not get her before her brother does.

[luaithre]

Thwap, and on a delay while his brain restarts—

"Ow," articulated, and not very quiet, more affront than actual pain or surprise, those last two better expressed in that short silence that had followed. And yes, it will be a nuisance to get up fast enough for immediate retaliation, so Marcus digs up a handful of muddy, rocky river-dirt and twists so he can fling it in Tsenka's direction, as hard as he can from his vantage point.

Which isn't very, but there are definitely some stones in there. Also on his way to getting up, of course, elephants forgotten.

bastien.

[cozen]

(Some number of starters between 1 and 100 below. Hit me up if you want one.)

for ellis.

[cozen]

Leaving, they followed this river for four hours at most. Returning, packs slightly heavier with carvings and mosaic tiles that might mean something or might not, it has been—it feels like it has been—three days. Maybe it would have felt like only two days, if not for the way the sun has hung overhead the whole time, at its midday peak, with enough heat filtering down through the leaves to make a pair of Southern Thedosians suffer.

They are taking a break. Or Bastien is taking a break, and Ellis has been made to choose between joining him or leaving him behind. Bastien's taken off his shoes, rolled his trousers up to mid-calf, and waded out that far into the river. The water's cold. The rocks are a little like a foot massage.

"Say we are trapped here forever," he says, with none of the despair or alarm that would accompany a genuine fear. They'll be alright. If nothing else, there are far too many people in Riftwatch who would refuse to leave without one of them or the other. "Can you hunt? You will have to teach me. Or you can hunt, and I can build a shelter and do the cooking."

[heorte]

A hypothetical.

From the river's edge, Ellis contemplates the possibility with due solemnity. He's let his pack drop, safely out of reach of the water that laps at his boots. His own concession to the heat: plucking at the laces of his tunic until they fall open.

"I would teach you, if you liked," is likely predictable. Though Ellis offers, crouching to dip fingers into the water as he continues, "But I would like to see what kind of shelter you build. How many rooms do you intend for it to have?"

closed.

[cozen]

After the spirit takes its pieces of them, after the chamber beyond gives up its secrets, after the dust settles and there are thirteen other people in the chamber with them, all witnesses to the same information, many better suited to use it—after this, there is still the journey back through the perilous forest.

Though less perilous, at least, in a larger group.

The first evening, Bastien joins Monsieur and Madame Rutyer by the campfire. He sits without any of the deference he might play at under other circumstances—no waiting for some sign of permission from Sidony to join them before he sits on her husband's other side, no hesitation before he tips over to rest his head and his newly deafened ear against By's shoulder. It feels better to give the ear some other excuse for the silence.

"We didn't have to do any of it," he says, quiet in a way that's as close as he's ever liable to come to sounding angry.

[indissection]

Sidony does not care about Bastien's deference most days - she is far too at ease with their relationship and more sour about her own loss of one than her husband's love - and she certainly does not mind it today. She is far too wrapped up in her own little agonies, her heart feeling stung and her hand... Aching.

It is from the loss, in part, but also from what will happen as a result. The index and ring, taken from her right hand, means that she is uncertain about her abilities as a healer, to do surgery, to be as precise as she needs to be. The one skill she had that made her unique... Gone.

And for what?

Blinking back tears, she reaches out for Byerly's hand, for Bastien's, whoever she might reach first. She is comfortable with them both, after all, and has no shame in it.

"And yet we have, so we must continue on. Mustn't we?"

[illithidnapped]

I: CRYSTAL

Mmph. Not to be woefully antithetical to my affliction's monstrous superstitions, but....is it just me, or has anyone felt like they're being watched? Heard rustling in the trees?

Spotted something treading after them in the dark....

Can't tell if it's Venatori or something else, but I've been spied on by everyone's favorite Imeldific fanatical-bastards before, and it never felt quiet like this.

[To which, he adds sharply:]

And I'd keep my wolf with me just in case, but the damned nuisance won't leave Fenris' side. Starting to suspect the man is bribing her for her attention, which is awful, you know—

The least he could do is buy us both out.

[When was the last time he got a pretty ribbon or a spare bone or strip of torn flesh as a treat, he asks you???]

II: SEEING RED

[It's a show of stillness in midday sun. A flicker of pallid white between overgrown, verdant green foliage— a strange glint of red, glittering in the shadows.

Astarion, that is, hunched forward and low, still as death itself and only half-obscured in something akin to the way a tiger prowls for its next meal without having found a proper mark just yet. Prim movements turned bestial by nature, part of who he truly is when the figurative mask is off: his clothes are still dark for practicality's sake, but his taste runs specific, and the halla leather kit he's either bought at cost or stolen is one far finer than the average Dalish would normally sport— flecked with pitch black Keeper feathers and dots of sparse, spattered gold. He wears gloves, of course, and checks over his shoulder often, twisting his stare left and right within an encircling mess of thin, painted markings that've been scribbled across his brow, cheeks and lips. It's not accurate, as far as vallaslin go. It doesn't belong to any god or goddess. No clans. Nothing at all.

He's wearing a costume, in essence. But he's only fooling passing humans, and like Hells does he imagine anyone in Corypheus' expendable fleet is going to actually notice the inaccuracy.

His nose tips towards the air, sniffing softly. He can't identify it, whatever it is. Ozone, yes, scorched and yet....different.]

Something's nearby.

Not sure what. [He murmurs low beneath his breath.]

Whatever it is, though, I doubt it's pleasant.

III: WILDCARD

[ooc: u kno what's up! mix and match, combine the two prompts, make up your own— chase your dreams and let's do this.]

wildcard. private crystal.

[elegiaque]

( this is a bad idea— )

You're in Arlathan and you can braid hair, right.

( maybe he can't. it feels obvious that he should be able to, but isn't that how they met, didn't he need her to do it, maybe he can't and— )

If you aren't or you can't then I'll manage, don't worry about it.

[illithidnapped]

Of course, and of course.

If there's a sweaty, miserable, entirely-too-hot place for me to languish in, why wouldn't I be dragged to it? [The most rhetorical question not at all aimed at her, amore huffing and puffing rather than blowing anyone's house down, for that matter.

Petty whinging is self-care, argues local vampiric elf.]

Consider my hands yours.

[Still, curiosity speaks, as ever:]

What's the occasion, darling? Too much woodland heat driving you mad?

the elves D.A.R.E warned you about;

[illithidnapped]

Strewth, it's too damned hot.

[Around the edges of the camp, Ataashi snuffles and sniffs at everything— occasionally flitting off into the forested underbrush in a pulse of green light. She never goes far. At least, Astarion doesn't think she goes far; any time there's a commotion or one of them calls for her, she's back just as swiftly as she'd vanished, and who really knows how Fade travel actually works, anyway?

So. Off she darts again for the hundredth time tonight, and in its wake Astarion's attention lifts from where he's slumped across a fallen log (relatively clean, as far as anything wild goes, thank the gods), arms splayed on either side the way a Lowtown thug performatively drapes against a bar ledge for the luxury of cheap drama: black pauldron feathers scrunched high around his face via his own raised shoulders, framing a jawline streaked with blood red paint— its sharp slopes visible beneath white curls that've grown too long these last few months, and in the Arlathan's nightbound humidity and heat, a little unable to maintain their shape. He spots gold-green eyes peering back from over the fire, and lyrium leylines surrounding that, and....

....it occurs to him that there's a joke to be made, starting with the opening line: a Fade wolf, a lyrium-steeped elf, and a Fade-touched elf make camp in a very old, very haunted forest.

His huffed exhale is a sour thing. It smells of alcohol and petulance alike.]

At this rate all the wine I brought is going to boil— [Said with a gloved-index-fingered tap to the (admittedly) warm bottle clutched within his opposite hand, contents sloshing for good measure.]

Be a dear, would you....if you're not going to provide shelter and sustenance for me in my hour of need, would you at least fetch another bottle from my pack. [By shelter and sustenance, he means more than bedrolls or hand-gutted fish.

Two days into the forest, with every last bite of tender Hightown-bought fillets exhausted on day one, he's fairly certain he might die.]

Oh— and the elfroot, too. Or the powder beneath that.

loxley.

[charmoffensive]

closed to derrica.

[charmoffensive]

One more evening to tie up loose ends, and the company is due to start packing up for a full return at first light. Many have already made their way back through the mirror, making for less shadows and echoed voices, scuffing footsteps and hefted torches. It's late when Loxley returns, having offered use of the night vision he still has in his one remaining eye to patrol the edges of their territory, before finally turning in.

He is a quiet, lanky figure, moving back through this odd fusion of cavern and naturally form cave. Mud spattered boots are quiet, by reflex, but he doesn't do anything to still the click and jangle of sheathed sword. Despite his own weariness, his own ego injury, he reflexively raises a hand to fix the muss of his hair as he sets a course, a newly formed habit to see that his curls do something to distract from the bandaging that disguises his left eye.

It's possible she has already departed for the Gallows, a thought he entertains before he collects some food anyway and moves to the cavern where bedrolls live, the scent of stale hay and warm bodies.

It hasn't been long, since the temple. Exhaustive travel, a long sleep, a patrol. Maybe now, things can get back to normal.

closed to gwenaëlle.

[charmoffensive]

They all emerge from the temple. They all kill a lot of Venatori. They all travel through the forest.

Now it's close to nightfall and they've all made camp, which means that they've stopped moving, and probably there are things sinking in, thoughts to have and feelings to process, and for Loxley's part, it's all going down sharp-edged and bitter. He has, now, separated himself from the group, retreated into the tent he's set up for himself, and,

it is dark. His coat shed, his sword wrapped in its belt, boots set aside. He doesn't sleep, sitting instead and listening to night birds and feeling his fingers tentatively around his eye socket. Contemplates how strange it is, there there's no big dark space where his eye would be, because there is no eye to be blinded. Wonders how he'll be, in a fight. If he's useless now.

There is a small mirror in his equipment, one attached to a long, adjustable rod, helpful for seeing around corners without putting yourself in the way of something unpleasant. After a few moments, he lights a hanging lantern with a wave of his hand, letting dim gold illuminate the tent, before he slowly goes searching through his things.

closed to tony.

[heorte]

Emerging from the ruins, walking into an absolute clusterfuck of a battle (thankfully not alone, considering Cosima's arm, Viktor's palpable exhaustion) then slogging through the aftermath of the conflict.

And then obscuring their presence, while guarding against further Venatori and anything else that might come lurching from the forest.

By the time there is a lull in activity, it is terribly late. (Or early.) The day seems to have dragged on, longer than it had any right. Ellis doesn't crack open his armor until he has wound his way to where Tony sits by the fire.

"You should be sleeping," is at least a familiar opener. They are far from Kirkwall and Tony's workshop, and Ellis has nothing but bone-deep exhaustion and a nagging, unsettling void he can't stop returning to, but there is some reassurance in the proof that some things are unchanged.

[propulsion]

'Sit by the fire' is a bit generous for what Tony is doing, which is lying prone on one side, up on an elbow, further explained when he says, "Ass too burned," regarding the sleep he should be having.

It's fine. He's gotten some healing in.

Which means there's probably other reasons why he hasn't succumbed to the deep exhaustion all of them have got to be feeling. The fact that sleep has never been a source of comfort is one of them, and even less, lately, alongside the fact there is simply too much to think about, too much to gnaw on, including that weird hole in his memory. He remembers the other negotiations, the other offers.

Maybe he would have given up all kinds of things to avoid this. Not a comment on the quality of the missing memory itself, but the niggling knowledge that there is something vital that he does not know.

He looks to Ellis. "It's past your bedtime too, pretty sure."