MOD PLOT ↠ BEFORE THE GATES | PUZZLE LOG

[faderifting]

WHO: Bastien, Byerly, Cosima, Derrica, Edgard, Ellis, Flint, Gwenaëlle, Josias, Loxley, Marcus, Mobius, Redvers, Sidony, Tiffany, Tony, Viktor
WHAT: Puzzles and sacrifice
WHEN: Mid Kingsway
WHERE: A temple in Arlathan Forest
NOTES: See also OOC post, open log.

The search pays off, after a few weeks, when a team—every team, independently, separated from the others by foliage and time, and unaware they aren't the only ones—stumbles upon a sizable contingent of Venatori and their allies making steady progress toward a ruined temple complex. It's too large a group for any four- or five-person team to combat directly. But they can outrun them. Whether they dash ahead of the enemy unseen or pause first to ambush or delay them, they'll beat them to the ruins. The forest is so densely grown up around and over its remnants that it's impossible to get a sense of the full scale, but something about the size of the walls and doorways arching high overhead, the opulence of the carvings and mosaics even encrusted by millenia of moss, suggests an important site. And there's a feeling, too, a spine-prickling sense of mingled excitement and foreboding, that whispers this must be the place.

That feeling is confirmed by the contents of the mosaics lining the walls, depicting a glowing golden city with a familiar arrangement of spires and towers. Looking at it causes a strangely powerful sense of deja vu until someone puts it together—these same towers now haunt the Fade, their blackened heights always visible, never reachable. The mosaic of the city circles what looks once to have been a great temple hall, perspective sloping to draw the eye to the only other doorway out of this space, an arched portal opposite, gilded to appear as if it's part of the mosaic, as if walking through it might take one through the walls of the golden city itself.

Each team will reach this temple alone and will travel through it alone. As far as they will be able to tell, they are the only ones to have made it here—perhaps the only people to set foot inside it in a thousand years or more—and the combination of time distortion and crystal lapses will make it impossible to determine otherwise. They can send all the messages they like while inside the complex, but will receive no replies until it's all over. As far as they know, they are the only people with this chance to investigate by far the most promising site Riftwatch has found in the forest. The enemy is going to arrive soon to take whatever is here, and if they leave here now who knows how long it might take to find it again.

Once they're inside, their passage through the temple will follow a linear path, with no opportunities to branch off or divide their party. There is a single route to follow, and the walls are still high and sheer and thick enough to stop them going over or under or through. Each room will present a new trial, a puzzle to be solved, feats of strength and cunning and bravery to be accomplished before the way forward is revealed. If they take the time to clear away some of the vines and study the statues and reliefs, they'll find that each room is dedicated to one or more of the Elvhen gods, which may provide clues if they know their pantheon.

Comments

I. PUZZLES

[faderifting]

The first of these rooms is dedicated to Ghilan'nain, goddess of navigation but most importantly mother of the halla. Her puzzle will require the team to pull two large stone aravel through a maze to places marked with symbols of Ghilan'nain—the white deer with their twisted antlers now tinted greenish brown with grime. And they'll need to move quickly, before the mosaics along the walls ripple and shift, stones flipping and rearranging, the halla symbols vanishing to reappear elsewhere and have to be hunted down all over again. Once they succeed in getting the stones into place, a mechanism will trigger the opening of a door into the next area of the temple.

This precinct is decorated with images of Sylaise and June. Here, the team will have to shift the pieces of an ironwood puzzle-knot as big around as a large oak. Solving it is complicated by the gutter surrounding the pedestal that roars into flame whenever the puzzle is in motion. It's possible to stand inside the ring of fire and work the puzzle, but the heat and the risk of getting singed will grow unbearable, so the team will need to work fficiently or find some way to repeatedly quench the magical flames. When the knot is finally unraveled, another door opens, this one dug into the earth, the path sloping steeply downwards.

It leads them into a semi-subterranean level of the temple, light filtering in through narrow slits running parallel just below the edge of the ceiling. The room is empty, and at first may appear featureless as well, but careful examination (and more light) will reveal that the mosaics so common elsewhere cover these walls as well. Unlike those they've seen in the rest of the temple, these tiles are so dark they're difficult to make out, and some patterns are more easily felt than seen. The images appear to repeat, each perfectly mirrored on the facing wall, but there are subtle differences woven in that distinguish Falon'Din from his twin, Dirthamen. Finding each of the hidden motifs of these gods and simultaneously pressing on the associated pairs of tiles will trigger the opening of the next door.

Again, the path slopes downwards, spiraling another story into the earth. The chamber it leads to is larger than the last, and startlingly—almost painfully—bright, as are the mosaics of Elgar'nan that cover its walls. Its light comes from a single narrow shaft in the center of the ceiling, and is diffused through the room with a series of angled mirrors. In the center of the room is an octagonal pedestal and, growing out of the basin at its top, what appears to be a miniature tree. It's overgrown and twisted now, too big for its pot, but its leaves are green. Through experimentation they'll eventually discover that by realigning the mirrors in a particular pattern they can direct all of the light inwards onto that tree—and the beam of concentrated sun becomes hot enough to burn the thousand-year-old plant to ash. Once it's destroyed, the pedestal sinks into the floor, which opens to reveal a pit too deep to see the bottom. There are no handholds on the smooth mosaic walls, decorated with the figure of Andruil. A dropped pebble will be heard to land, but with less echo than might be expected. The light points them down. Time for a leap of faith into the abyss.

They fall into darkness, for long enough that if they strike the bottom now it will be a killing blow. But they don't. After a moment long enough to inspire panic, their descent begins to slow, a magical barrier depositing them on the stone floor with barely a thud.

marcus. ota for team strangely hostile energy.

[luaithre]

The oppressively relentless linearity of their journey should not be as stressful as, say, the way their crystals have failed to work, the dark unknown they steadily progress towards, or the Venatori at their heels. But if there were alternate paths to take, chambers to explore, opportunities to split away—well, it would be a relief. As it is, Marcus falls back behind the group with the clear preference who would prefer outright enemies only at his back. Quiet, keeping his own company, dressed in his elaborate layers of mage armor and keeping his bladed staff in hand.

Whenever they dip through a dark tunnel, he lets the runes cut into the iron of his weapon flare an angry, bright orange, making the air immediately around him uncomfortably warm, offputtingly smokey.

Once they've progressed to the puzzle of Sylaise and June, Marcus at first hangs back, uncertain, while others brave the perimeter of the ironwood puzzle-knot, and at first sign of fire, he brings his staff around in a swift motion. Frost ripples across the ground from the toes of his boots right up to the perimeter as he summons an icy gust of winter, suppressing the flames, saving them from a scorching. This becomes his role, laying down sheets of ice as they suppress and melt in cycles, too focused to become impatient. Or at least express impatience verbally.

No, that's for the puzzles of Elgar'nan and its angled mirrors. Instead of quietly feeling his way around the puzzle as he'd done in the previous, Marcus is more inclined to bark orders. Some are polite enough, if brusque, like, "Turn that one around, upwards," and other times, less so, "Don't touch that," you idiot pronounced more implicitly, or simply moving past someone to physically undo or correct the thing they just did—and worse, he's right almost every time, a strong beam of light piercing through the gloom in a new and promising direction.

In between these tasks, when they rest, Marcus will take out his crystal, hopefully checking it for any sign of message, sitting on crumbled stone and checking to see if anyone is watching before he tries to send another message. Variously: Petrana de Cedoux, Enchanter Julius, Commander Flint, and Derrica.

elgar'nan

[favoriteanalyst]

Okay, so, this has been an auspicious start. Mobius has been having some real shit luck at these puzzles. Not, he thinks, because he's not smart enough for them, but because shit just happens, and it happens to involve him so far. And Redvers, that one time, and Tiffany another.

So. He's not having a great day. And the asshole who thought it would be fun to interrogate anyone he thought might be suspicious, aka any Templars or Seekers or, fuck, anyone associated with the Chantry, Mobius guesses, is having a great day ordering everyone around like he knows everything about everything.

Doesn't matter if he does or not. Because it still pisses him off. Just in a quiet way. A way that he can set aside for the sake of the goal.

The quiet way is about to become a real fucking loud way for the way Marcus steps in and has a very particular tone that he's smart enough to read between the lines of. Mobius doesn't move the mirror. He is perhaps a lot less cognizant of his immediate surroundings when he lets go of it, though.

"If you want to do it all yourself," he says with only the thinnest veneer of calm, motioning to the room as a whole, "then you can say so and do it. It is hardly my fault if your specific instructions leave a little to be desired."

Which is about when he realizes the edge of his sleeve has caught however briefly in the strong beam of light. And caught alight.

"Shit-!"

rest.

[atonally]

Unlike all of his ideas about mirrors, one of Marcus' pre-crystal snoop checks does fail. Only by a hair. Redvers emerges into hearing distance at exactly the right second, entirely by accident. But it's enough to hear a name.

His eyebrows tic upwards. He picks his way across the moss-lined stone floor to stand beside him with some difficulty. In the first of these obnoxious chambers, tasked with hauling stone aravels through a maze, he'd pulled something in his lower back. It twinges erratically. He can only partly ignore it.

"Derrica," he echoes. The crystal isn't going to say anything. "What Circle is she from?"

nerd party @ sylaise and june's

[heorte]

Ellis is not under any illusion that his role here extends beyond putting his full strength behind shifting what need be shifted, and putting down any potential threats that arise in the course of their expedition.

If the usual agenda item of "keep Tony from sticking his fingers into the first dangerous magical thing that arises" happens to dovetail with these objectives, it is only happy coincidence.

However, having graduated from heavy stone to open flame, Ellis is reconsidering the difficulty of that goal.

"It would be more bearable if I could afford to take off the armor."

Except that would waste far too much time. So the endurance test of cooking in plate will be obliged to continue.

Does Ellis intend this to serve as motivation? It's hard to say.

[grindset]

"I'm not certain a wardrobe change is the most efficient use of our time here," says new guy Viktor, in half-distracted validation. He's standing well clear of the flame gutter, sending crystal in hand. What he now performs is a very technical form of troubleshooting known as shake the thing and see if that works, followed by a few good, solid flicks.

He was very quiet on the way in, lamp-eyed and taut with nerves, still buzzing from the surreal thrill of the eluvian. Mirrors as gates, metaphysical pathways, folding space—his mouth scarcely closed for a good forty minutes.

In Ghilan'nain's maze there was plenty of pushing and pulling to be done, of which he could do very little, and thus plenty of reason to question the wisdom of bringing him here at all, but he played his part—though spotting antlers in the mossy dim was only a small part, by his reckoning—and their success has pried him open at least enough for a little commentary to slip out.

His gently smarting fingernail confirms the expected: "Still nothing."

(In time, Ellis will no doubt learn that more than ten of the fingers present in this ancient room are liable to be stuck in something dangerous.)

team fakers @ elgar'nan and andruil

[cozen]

By now, the pleasant can-do attitude Bastien's exhibited through the previous chambers—through the sweaty manual labor of the maze, through the puzzle-knot's attempts to burn them to death, and through most of the spot-the-difference-in-the-dark game they've just left—is beginning to flag.

This is mostly because he cut his hand, in that last one. He cut it wide open on a jaggedly broken tile that he should have noticed but did not, and then it took several seconds for the pain to sink in as something worse than a surface scratch. By then he'd already smeared blood on one of the mosaics in the dark, making that the biggest difference between them.

His hand is wrapped up now. Blood's spotting the outer strip of cloth, but it's not going to soak through. The frown he aims at it is almost sour. Then he looks up and catches his reflection in the nearest angled mirror, fixes his mustache with his knuckles, and turns on everyone else with a faint smile.

"I'm sure we're almost there," is what he said last time too.

[bouchonne]

Byerly knocks his knuckles against Bastien's shoulder, and smiles at him. In an odd turn of their usual circumstances, he's feeling actually cheerier than Bastien is. Perhaps it's because a few of these puzzles he actually managed to help figure out - a rare thing for him, comparatively speaking - or perhaps it's the company - or perhaps it just giddy relief, that his beloveds came away with only minor injuries - but he is, though not happy, in better spirits than some others.

"I'm sure we are," he says. And he gestures ahead - "Look, it's already looking brighter."

mobius : team strangely hostile energy

[favoriteanalyst]

Setting aside the small personal disaster of Elgar'nan and the accidental self-immolation:

Ghilan'nain seems simple if irritating enough. The aravel are heavy, though, and have plenty of unfortunate momentum once they get going. It feels like a fluke at best, a mix of mixed signals of where to go and where to stop and how to stop, when the aravel moves too fast or perhaps himself too slow. He refuses to let the ensuing injury slow him down, even if it involves a good deal of bruising right in his chest. Could be those ribs are going to cause him pain for a good while. But he'll try not to let it show. So long as nothing is straight up broken.

The puzzle of Sylaise and June goes well, frankly. "We can't rely on snuffing the flames out the entire time," he suggests, mindful of the fact that Marcus certainly can't manage it the entire time they puzzle it out without exhausting himself. "We'll figure it out and then work in rotation." So no one's caught in ice or flame for too long a time. It's not the most difficult thing to figure out, between the lot of them, thankfully.

In the room of Falon'Din, he also doesn't feel like anything is particularly his fault. If only because somehow they've startled a small family of jaguars that made this room home, napping in a thin beam of light. It's entirely possible they make their way through the slits outside by the ceiling through some feline cunning and fancy footholds. But, they are unhappy with the intrusion. Mobius doesn't hesitate to take up his sword. They need either scared off or fought to the death, whichever comes first, so that their merry band can match the motifs unmolested by claws and jaws. He's handy with his shield. But perhaps he should have brought his armor, no matter how heavy and unreasonably impractical it would have been in the dense jungle and heat.

The drop of Andruil fucking sucks, and this elven bullshit can stop anytime now. He nudges a pebble over the edge. It...is longer than could reasonably be guessed to survive, but it's hardly endless if they can hear it. "Maybe it curves into something of a slide," he comments wryly. Not very likely. "Anyone pack a good deal of rope?" He isn't afraid to take a leap of faith when his faith calls for it. This is...less that, especially in his state. But he'll do it if he has to.

the pit of Andruil

[fairforce]

Tiffany edges forward carefully so that she can peer over the edge. The light doesn't carry very far down, so mostly what this does is afford her a better look at the absolute darkness of the pit below them.

"I have some," she offers, without much confidence. "Enough that we could lower someone a little more, to see if there's any hand-holds just out of sight. Besides that, I don't know that I'll be of much use either way. My arm is feeling worse, not better."

What had seemed a minor tumble in the chamber of Falon'Din is--well, maybe still that. Even so, her arm is definitely hurting more, though she's kept it tucked close to her side.

"Surely there's a way to solve it. What sort of puzzle is 'a great big hole'?"

loxley. ota for team pirate vibes.

[charmoffensive]

"Oh," says Loxley, first, after what is a probable and healthy length of baffled silence from the group at large, "it's a fucking puzzle."

Which is (unfortunately) not uncommon in ancient elven ruins, nor is it uncommon in the kinds of dusty, mossy, dripping temples that Loxley has delved into back home either. There is almost something like relief tingeing the light-hearted exasperation in his tone, voice echoing off the shadowed corners of the chamber—it is, at least, a familiar sort of obstacle to encounter, and who knows? If it doesn't progress them further, maybe treasure will come out instead.

Hauling stone in this hall of Ghilan'nain, anyway, is not his strong suit, but it's a simple enough requirement of him that he participates with willing and enthusiasm. Built for quicker movement and agility than brute force, but not unaccustomed to a little physical hardship either—and look, there's even a grizzled pirate captain on hand to really make it nostalgic.

It appears to take a lot out of him, given how average he does for the rest of their time together.

Eventually, standing at the edge of where the pedestal descends in the many-mirrored room of Elgar'nan, revealing the. Bottomless pit? Of Andruil. Loxley, alarmingly comfortable with heights despite his tall centre of gravity, bends at the waist to peer down into it. It's as an aside to Derrica that he says, "I used to have a spell for this," before twisting in place to see if there's a good place to hitch a rope.

If they have rope. One problem at a time.

[elegiaque]

For her sins, Gwenaëlle has been obliged to trudge through a number of elvhen ruins — mostly temples — just once she'd like to trudge through the ruin of someone's extremely normal house — and when Loxley says it's a fucking puzzle the dismay she probably felt the first five times someone came to the same conclusion elsewhere is muted by that familiarity. It grinds up something more like exasperated irritation, equally familiar, ancient fucking elves and their fucking riddles and they can't do anything straightforward, can they—

And she doesn't even know Solas is presently dicking about, in this very forest.

It is probably a combination of that irritation and the still-pinching burn she ought to do something about shortly that provokes, “I could try screaming into the void,” dryly, “recreate the experience of talking to these people—”

There was a time she cared for Solas, now known to be Fen'Harel, even if her pride would like to pretend she knew better all along. On the other hand, Flemeth can and indeed has always had the option of sucking her dick.

gwenaëlle. ota for me mateys.

[elegiaque]

“Maker, but they fucking love a mosaic.”

It's darker here, now that they've solved two of the temple's tricky obstacles and spilled into the third— dimmer, harder to see, but still all these fucking mosaics. You'd think that after some years and several ruins now, she'd have a knack for this, which is the sort of thinking that saw her trudging through a ruin on Flint's island now lodged somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, and—

wait.

Her eyes narrow, and she slides her hand along the wall.

Wait,

“No, I know this one,” she says, frowning at the design, trying to dredge up the memory.

[charmoffensive]

"I can see alright, actually."

And it's true—to look over at Loxley would be to see the dull gleam of night-seeing eyes, where light reflects off the backs of his eyeballs. The absence of colour is a hindrance, however, as is the absence of any knowledge as to what this bullshit means.

He prefers a puzzle you can trick when need be. So far, none of these are that. "What should I be looking for? And also, how do you know this one?"

II. SACRIFICE

[faderifting]

Waiting for them at the end of this ordeal is a small room much taller than it is long or wide, bare save for the presence of a towering mosaic on the far wall. It begins as Mythal—but then it might transform, tiles flipping in waves to transition between Mythal and Sylaise, Dirthamen and Junsomeonee, any member of the pantheon save Fen'Harel (whose inclusion post-dates the construction of this place).

The voice comes from the mosaic. Maybe. It's loud, especially in so small a room, as if very large were speaking into an empty jug, and that makes it difficult to tell exactly where it's coming from. But the mosaic and the voice shift together: a little more feminine for the female gods, more masculine for the male, smirking or stern or mysterious in turns.

It says, "WHAT IS THIS WORTH TO YOU?" And then, prompting: "YOUR LIFE?"

That's just how it introduces itself. It will further explain what it guards ("THE SEALS OF THE GOLDEN CITY") and what it can provide ("THE KNOWLEDGE TO OPEN, OR THE KNOWLEDGE TO CLOSE") and why it's guarding the entrance ("THEY KNEW THEY WERE FADING"). And it becomes clear, through similarly dramatic answers to any question it's asked, that it wants a life—"OF A SEEKER, NOT A SLAVE"— in exchange for passage.

The spirit haunting the mosaic is, generously, willing to leave whose life up to the people there to decide, with limitations: it has to be one of their own. They can't leave and come back with someone else—there is no way back up the shaft they came down and no other exit to be found. Even if they could blast their way out somehow and find their way back again, in the meantime the Venatori who were approaching the temple behind them could get here first, and they probably won't hesitate to give someone up.

It's up to them to choose who among their number will give up their life for this, if anyone. If they choose…

↠ SOMEONE, the mosaic spirit will be pleased with them–their decision-making ability and their understanding of how important this is. It will let the chosen sacrifice live, and instead offer them a chance to offer other, smaller sacrifices for the right to pass. It will offer each person two sacrifices to choose from, and might be amenable to bargaining if there's something else they're willing to give up instead, as long as it's of the same importance. The sacrifices it requires will–at least nominally–be less dire than they might have been. (This doesn't rule out a serious sacrifice if you'd prefer, it could just mean it claims that under the circumstances it's willing to take only one eye instead of both.)

↠ NO ONE, SCREW YOU DEMON, the mosaic spirit will be annoyed and disappointed. Do they understand the importance of what they are asking it to let them have? Etc. But it's benevolent enough (not a demon, thank you) to be willing to compromise. If they all sacrifice a piece of their lives, they can pass through. In this scenario, there will be no choice and no negotiation; it will name what it wants from them, one after the other, and if they agree it will take it. If anyone refuses, they'll all be barred from going forward, and anyone who sacrificed something before the refusal will still have lost it and be shit out of luck.

In both scenarios, as the mosaic demands sacrifices from each of them, the tiles will click and voice shift among different elven gods with different demands. Andruil wants something useful in the hunt; Dirthamen wants a secret; June a skill; Sylaise something that makes you feel at home.

The process is quiet. Lost memories disappear and leave nothing behind; body parts that once were there are gone, leaving fresh scar tissue rather than wounds. Sacrificed secrets appear in the backs of the minds of the others in the group, there to be known without trumpets or ceremony.

Each sacrifice makes the mosaic glow a little brighter, until the last is made and it slides out of the way entirely.

arrr, me mateys.

[elegiaque]

Still rewinding bandages cooled off the ice magic of Hakkon's Wrath around her arm where the beam of hot sunlight had caught her unwarily when it focused, Gwenaëlle has been quiet in a way that's— well, usual to her at work, actually, and only Derrica is not much familiar with that among their party. So maybe it doesn't strike anyone as out of the ordinary, her subdued consideration of the prospect at hand, pragmatism warring with irritation warring with the absolute certainty that whatever these things are, they're no more gods than Solas turned out to be.

Inconvenient that quibbling about their origins or nature is not going to get anyone any further through whatever the fuck this is, which they had better find out before the Venatori, probably.

But setting aside elvhen bullshit, of which there is altogether too much in the world considering they're meant to be dead, the logic seems to her straightforward. Flint and Derrica occupy important roles within Riftwatch's structure; Loxley holds experience and competence that her comparatively few years in training and the field can't compete with. If they're making a decision about sacrifice, then they should be thinking about value, about who it is important walks out of here, and—

“I'll do it,” she says, working her way to the end of that thought. “If we're thinking about what Riftwatch needs, then I can do it.”

There is one point she's overlooked.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley repeats some things he's done several times throughout their journey through the temple: a roaming perimeter check, feeling his hands lightly over cracks in the wall, peering at uneven stone tiles in the floor. He has been, by now, on plenty of dungeon crawls, and knows to look for signs of traps, and in this instance, signs of possible escape. Rudely, a little, getting his black-grey fingernails or the edge of a dagger into the grooves of the mosaic.

There is often a trick, is the thing. That's the only useful quibble he might have, as far as whether these entities are godly or no.

And he hasn't ceased, just because the parameters have been made clear. Fuck that.

Or he would say fuck that had Gwenaëlle not said differently. From where he stands at the mosaic, back to them, he lets out a dry huff of mirthless laughter, something unspoken. For the moment. Scrape-scrape-scrape, of the dagger.

can't fake their way out of this one.

[cozen]

They ought to have insisted on bringing a mage, is what Bastien thinks first, and for the first time in his life.

On its heels is don't you dare.

This is not thought at the demon in front of them, or around them, or wherever the it is. Not at himself, either. It's thought at Byerly. The thought stays unspoken, but he wraps his uninjured hand around By's arm at the elbow without subtlety. No adjustment of fingers to bard-sign anything more complicated. Just a firm grip that says don't you dare all on its own.

"Bullshit," does not come with a quaver. He stops gawking at the mosaic to look from face to face. Surely they are all in agreement that this is bullshit.

[bouchonne]

It does cross his mind. And it doesn't leave his mind, not entirely - because if the choice is him or Sidony, or him or Bastien, and there are no alternatives, then he knows what he will insist upon.

(Him or Josias...Well. That's - more complicated. Which is a thought he won't dwell upon.)

But it's also not an option that attracts him in the least. A mildly surprising thing, that realization - for there had been a time when a heroic sacrifice hadn't been an idea he'd disliked. But that was before he'd had what he has now. To die would be to lose it, and that thought is intolerable.

"Bullshit," Byerly agrees, and grips Bastien back. And he looks over to Sidony, trying to communicate as much to her: bullshit.

bad science

[heorte]

Of course, there is discussion. As little as Ellis actually knows Cosima and Viktor, he understands the dynamic that has formed between them and Tony. They are scientists. They are trying to divine a way around this sacrifice, or a way to lessen the sting of it, or even simply to settle upon the cleanest way forward based on their understanding of the information before them.

Ellis remains quiet for the first few minutes of it. Not tracking the exact sentiments being traded, but marking the flow of the conversation as it passes around him. Ellis has already come to a conclusion. He is only fixing the decision in his mind, testing the edges of it to see how it fits against all that has governed him thus far.

There is a passing flicker of—

Not regret. But some rueful thought for Silas, and the handiwork that reduced all that had happened on their mission in Starkhaven to a new-made scar raising pink along Ellis' throat. Maybe that was only to bring Ellis here, to be of use in this place. To do his duty here, where no other Warden is at hand to take up the task.

The smooth motion of mace being returned to Ellis' hip might be missed. Even the brief scrape of armor that accompanies the raising of his arms might be negligible in the heat of this three-way discussion. But once Ellis has unfastened the delicate hook securing the chain at his neck and drawn out the ring kept hidden on the end of it, the first intentional, minor interruption comes as Ellis catches hold of Tony by the forearm to oblige him to hold out a hand for the little ring.

[propulsion]

Tony isn't midsentence when it happens. A near thing, but Ellis hits on a moment where Tony is watching the mosaic more than his colleagues, characteristic patter and tempo of monologue out of him quieted. There isn't, really, a lot to say, or much more of it: the premise is plain, they are out of resources, and even the craftiest among them can't work with an empty room with blank walls and no way out after they've already looked for hidden doors or any kind of trick.

No, it comes down to: do we risk refusal, see where that leads, or do we give up a person. Method as it how they do that hasn't yet been circled, but Tony can feel the gravitational tug of it. There are considerations. Age. Rifter status. Usefulness. Institutional importance. Random chance. What is he meant to argue?

And he feels Ellis' hand on his arm and his heart does a thing, a lurch, but it doesn't show so outwardly except that his expression is all tension, a resistant shift of his weight back on a heel as he looks to Ellis. His hands are on his hips, and he doesn't move them despite the gesture.

"What?"

bad vibes for the strangely hostile

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius takes it all in with a muted sense of wonder. This is all still amazing, fantastic, wild, wonderful, weird. This is something huge. This needs documented. They are in the presence of something that has likely gone unseen, untouched, unheard for Ages.

But it asks in return. The discovery, the words, the simple demand, sends a momentary shiver down his spine before it straightens as much as it can. And with his bruising, his burning, his bumbling and fumbling and fighting and injuries and setbacks and. The distrust and disappointment from those he cares about and. The distant yet still everpresent knowledge that he's lived a long life while many others haven't and. The wondering if this, if this is what the Maker's will is, deep in the pits of the ancient elves; if this is where Andraste has finally guided him after all these years. He realizes thus: there's a choice, technically, but it doesn't feel like a choice at all.

He takes a steadying breath, ignoring the pull of pain, and steps forward. "My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval." Words from the Chant fall easily from him, ignoring the irony of being touched with fire earlier. At least to his credit, at least it is not 'let mine be the last sacrifice'.

"I don't think there needs to be any debate about this."

[muckspout]

Panic floods Edgard's every sense. This is not good. This is extremely bad. He looks from Mobius to the rest of the group behind him, covering his mouth with his hand and huffing out loudly.

"He is joking right?!" A curse in Orlesian and then looks back at Mobius.

"Of course, we need to discuss the thing that just asked us for a sacrifice! How are we--"

He puts his hands in his hair and then squats down to his knees to take some breaths. This is an actual nightmare.

III. RITUAL

[faderifting]

This round chamber is decorated like the great hall through which they entered, its walls shining gold undimmed by the ages. At its center is a glowing portal not unlike the doorway of an active eluvian, except it simply hangs in the air without a frame. Its size and position are steady, without the twisting or the sickly green glow of a rift, and it barely ripples as the four members of the team step out of it.

They step up to a carved stone block that is unmistakably an altar with a collection of objects arranged upon it. Each illusionary double—they are more clearly incorporeal here than they were in the forest—steps up to a place around the altar. One stands before an orb into a stand, another a shallow dish with a dark viscous liquid that shines red when the light catches it, the others to a pair of objects that flicker and change as if unable to settle on a single form: first a dagger and a cup, then a small finely carved statuette and a pendant, a piece of embroidered cloth and a battered tome.

As the team watches, they act out a ritual, the person with the orb (the reenactment doesn't seem to care who is or isn't a mage in reality) drawing power that sets it glowing, another casting a spell that causes the blood in the dish to bubble before it is poured, boiling, over the other objects. Words are spoken in an ancient tongue, fast and low and unfamiliar. The blood-soaked artifacts are left, dripping, in the center of the altar as the figures step back from it. Around the room now appear ghostly flickering images of elves, taller than they are today, dozens of them lined up in concentric circles. As the team-member with the orb chants, the others make their way through the room, methodically slitting the throats of the elves and arranging their bodies so that the blood flows down the almost invisible slope to the center of the room to pool at the base of the altar.

The orb is placed in the pool, and the four of them, surrounded by elven corpses, chant the final refrain of the ritual. The glow of the orb flares blinding bright, a wave of searing heat and cold passes over them, and then the room returns to normal, and the portal at its center is gone.

For a moment, the mirage is still, frozen in place, and then it flicks back to life again. The objects are once again on the altar, the elves standing around the room. The ritual is almost identical, but for the words. At its end, the portal opens. Another pause, and then the reenactment begins again, closing the portal once more. It plays on a loop, opening and closing, eight times, before it vanishes.

As it dissipates, the team will realize they are not in the chamber alone. There are new faces scattered around the room, some of them suddenly so close to you that you really ought to have known they were there. Fortunately, they're familiar faces: other teams of Riftwatch members who have gone through the same ordeal at both the same time and a different time, finally arriving at the same point. And a previously unseen door opens, a long hall sloping back up to the surface and the forest above.

IV. LOOSE ENDS

[faderifting]

—which leaves the Venatori and their allies, trying to reach the temple. They've made a startling lack of progress, for how long it feels as if Riftwatch has been inside. But between those in the chamber and any who were kicked out for failing the sacrifice test, Riftwatch now numbers seventeen, instead of four or five. Even though they may have fewer eyes between them than when they went in, that's plenty to wipe the enemy off the map before they realize exactly what they've found. Just remember to make sure no trace of Riftwatch's presence is left.