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

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.

[tender]

Derrica is quiet as well, letting Gwen's offer settle.

Doing her own calculations. Watching Loxley at work. Aware of the Commander, close at hand. Of what Gwen is capable of with her bow. Aware of her own injuries, and that they must still trek their way out of this place, that there is likely danger waiting for them in the process.

It cannot be the Commander. Between the remaining three of them, is Derrica so vital she cannot be spared?

She turns entirely to look at Gwen, measured and still in her assessment. This is not a small offer. Derrica doesn't doubt that Gwen's made her own calculations.

Her attention is weighted. There is acceptance couched there, perhaps, alongside apprehension and objection. The possibility at hand is so important, but still—

[katabasis]

That rasp of the mosaic's turning tiles—a sound like some massive and formidable deck of cards being shuffled for an unpromising game of chance—has settled now. As if, having said its piece, the spirit is now happy to leave them on their tenterhooks.

In that lonely little room, Flint half turns toward Gwenaëlle. It's an abrupt, thoughtless thing. His hand, which has had little reason to wander toward the pommel of the sword at his hip since they'd slipped past the Venatori, moves absently in that direction now. Nevermind that there is arguably less reason for it here than anywhere else. It's hardly as if stabbing the wall is getting Loxley anywhere.

—Warrants a sharp look in his direction, which skates naturally on toward Derrica. It's a sharply critical examination of the both of them, and the silence hanging thick over their heads in shadow of what's been volunteered.

When the point of his attention snaps back to Gwenaëlle a second time, it's lands with far more intent.

(Let us draw lots, should be a ready alternative. Only it can't be him.)

"Give that to me."

With a twist of the shoulders and a single step, he turns fully away from the shivering mosaic and takes over the end of the bandage Gwenaëlle is turning about her arm. Her elbow is briskly braced. Flint resumes the effort of wrapping the length of frost crinkling cloth over scorched skin. The look he gives her is a searching thing, as private as is possible in a narrow room crammed with two other people.

(Fuck Derrica and Loxley both for raising no instant objection.)

[elegiaque]

It occurs to Gwenaëlle that if she's going to do this, then she probably doesn't even need a bandage, really, what's the point of it—

she swallows what might have been a laugh, in case it had sounded like some other, worse thing, and relaxes her arm in Flint's grip. Most of the time, she likes to pretend not to notice how much she tilts towards these small gestures of care; don't read too much into it, don't assume too much, don't need it too badly in case it's taken away. But it feels good, is the thing, and she presses her lips together and for a moment avoids his gaze, in case. Just— in case.

“I have the least useful experience to preserve,” she says, in the same brisk, businesslike way, “I don't hold any office of authority, I don't have even a half decade of training,”

it makes sense, she thinks, for it to be her.

(In another elvhen temple, ruined by time and intent, shades of the Baudins had held their arms out to her, and it had been Iorveth to drag her away when she might have walked into them.)

[charmoffensive]

It's true; Loxley's objection is not instant. It is a prolonged few seconds of facing down the reality that there is no hidden switch or something behind the rippling tiles, of drawing in a breath as he goes about re-sheathing his dagger.

"This isn't a matter of experience, darling," and he really only darlings when he is putting up a bit of a front. Both women in the room likely know that, a bit, but when he turns back to face all three, there's an easy smile, summoned from nowhere. "It's a matter of how there's a clear answer, isn't there."

The smile dims, his hands sort of opening out, not quite a shrug. "I might disappear tomorrow," is a little less ostentatious in delivery. "And if I do so not even having done anything very heroic—"

Then what is the point of him.

He is also mostly addressing the huddle of Commander and Orlesian in their corner, but there's an intensity between the two that forces him to also glance to Derrica. His hands go to his hips, taking a sharper breath in, as if to catch it. "No, not you," quieter, to Gwenaëlle. "If it's to be one of us, I should."

[tender]

Years ago, Derrica had sat on the ferry in the cold with Richard Dickerson. He'd put a question to her, in the course of that return trip: Would she choose a rifter over her countrymen?

Neither of them could have known that there would come a point when that theoretical was made very real.

"Stop it," is so broadly directed that it includes even the Commander, who must have opinions though he has not voiced them. She finds them telegraphed in the knife-edge of his expression. There is a split second where she might wish to take those words back, or temper them in some quiet deference to him, but the urge is set aside.

She has made herself very still where she stands, spine straight in spite of the weight leaned onto her stave.

The choice must be made. Derrica can see no way past it, because the information is so precious. Leaving without it is not an option. The Commander volunteering himself is not an option.

More time to think on it isn't going to change the confines of the choice set before them.

"I can try to speak with it," is a tenuous, maybe useless approach. Derrica knows better than perhaps anyone in this room how intractable spirits can be. "If we can persuade it to accept a different barter..."

No one has to argue over which of them dies here.

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.

[dastardly]

The single word that immediately floods Josias' mind - though does not pass his lips - is a degree stronger. An emphatic, frustrated, disbelieving "fuck".

There's no need to look at the faces of the others. He already knows the odds. He is the outsider here, the tag-along to this party of husband and wife and what he strongly suspects to be husband's lover. On those scales, his life has the least worth.

He may pass himself off as a mediocre bookkeeper, but he knows how this account will balance.

The only chance that may spare him is some streak of stubborn heroism in any of his companions, but with the limited options, that route would likely lead to self-sacrifice. Which the other two were not likely to allow. Stalemate.

Fuck, he thinks again, and for lack of being able to properly express it outwardly, reverts to his persona's reaction to such a hideous prospect: cowering. Backing as far away from the demon as possible, attempting to make himself as small as possible. If, somewhere within that, he spends a good amount of time glaring at his anchor-shard afflicted hand, well, that would be understandable given his circumstances.

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?"

[youwonscience]

Cosima would have been pacing, except she's not sure that the makeshift sling she's put together is sturdy enough to risk jarring her elbow that much. It's clear, though, that her mind is racing, working on their options. It's one more puzzle, and they're a group of clever people. They'll think of something.

She glances back when Tony speaks, frowning. "What's going on?"

[grindset]

The spirits' request—

First of all, there are spirits here and they spoke to them, and Viktor felt it in his chest more than he heard it. He jumped the first time, sucked in too quick a breath, strangled his coughs behind lips clamped shut and held out just until YOUR LIFE?, so it seemed the question itself caused him to choke. (In fairness, it didn't not cause that.)

After that—the recovery, the throat-clearing, the silently willing people to pretend that didn't just happen—the few contributions he makes to their grim discussion are quiet. He's less than forthcoming with the content of his own argument, and it squeezes at him, the shame and anxious relief of it.

He tucks his rust-flecked handkerchief away. Ellis slings his mace. What follows is rich with some unnamed, unspoken significance; as an outsider he can only recognize its silhouette. No need to add another what to the pile, so he merely stands there wearing his uneasy face shapes and darts glances between the three of them.

[heorte]

"This belongs to Wysteria. You'll need to return it to her for me after this."

—isn't necessarily an answer the pair of whats, but it carries a clear meaning.

His hand doesn't lift from Tony's arm. There's no reason to believe any of them are going to take this in stride, but if he leaves little room for argument, then maybe—

[propulsion]

"I don't like being handed things."

—is an absurd to thing to say, but, counterpoint: is it any more absurd than what Ellis is not saying? What is implied, hanging off his words a lot heavier than a ring off a chain? Tony sticks by it, hands unmoving out of his pose, and he should probably do the whole thing, shake Ellis off of him, but he doesn't do that either.

But he does glance to it. "And I'm really not great at breaking bad news. I make jokes, you know, inappropriate, kind of a defense mechanism. You'd be great at it."

You know, if they're narrowing down their options. Strangely, Viktor and Cosima don't feel like contenders for the chopping block. Too civilian shaped, maybe. He's responsible for them, and getting them out of here.

Ellis is an unacceptable option, but not not an option.

[youwonscience]

"OK, back all the way up." Cosima's expression has flattened out, the habitual warmth of her tone mostly absent. "No one's life is worth less than anyone else's, and if we're talking about grand sacrifices, we're drawing straws or we're not doing it. End of discussion." It's clear that she'd cross her arms if she could.

"But before we even get there, it's not at all clear to me that what they're talking about involves any of us not coming home from this mission, so let's just cool it a second, OK? There are things we can give up that aren't someone's actual life, there is absolutely no reason to jump to that."

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.

[luaithre]

Woomf.

From as far back in the room as Marcus can really get when such close confines prevent them from much in the way of privacy, let alone staff-swinging, a wall of green energy flashes through the room—harmlessly, for the record, only stirring the air around them as it passes through. Dispelling magic strikes the mosaic, and seems to scatter and dissolve on impact to no particular effect.

Marcus lowers his hands from where he'd raised his staff and splayed the other, palm open, an irritated sounding exhale leaving him. It isn't his talent, the meddling with spirits, this kind of finessing of the Veil, but rock and brimstone and molten lava is probably not going to help them either.

The butt of his staff finds the floor with a click of wood on stone. Looks to Edgard, crouching down. Next to Mobius, and the others. Says nothing.

[fairforce]

"I think we can all recite at least a line or two from the Chant," Tiffany says, somewhat archly, "so if that's the current requirement for nomination, I'd say we do need to have a debate."

Seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your glory.

She rolls her shoulders, gentle with the left, to avoid jarring her arm. It's been a rush, getting here--dangerous, not always pleasant, frequently painful, but still, a rush--and it was a rush beholding this ancient thing that no one has set eyes on in Ages. Now she is just tired. The flash of magic from Marcus has sobered her still more. She watches the green light strike the impassive mosaic.

"There has to be another way."

[favoriteanalyst]

The wave of magic makes him tense as it passes harmlessly by, and he gazes back at Marcus. Who says nothing. Which...yeah. Makes sense.

Looks at Edgard who seems to be having a bit of a breakdown. Looks at Tiffany. Sighs. "There ought to be," he concedes. "But if someone has to go, look, I'm the one." Just. Letting that sit there.

"What are our options? Do we try to negate the magic?" He could, sure. Tiffany ought to be able to as well. He's not sure if she knows yet or not. "How that fairs against magic of the ancient elves, I don't know, but magic is magic. All comes from the Fade." So. That's an option to try. "We could tell them to stuff it and that we're not sacrificing anyone, which could keep us trapped, but maybe they want a show of defiance?" Who knows when it comes to enchanted wall art of long dead elves. "We could all try and step up and offer ourselves as a collective. Could have the same outcome. What else have we got?"

[muckspout]

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

"No!" Edgard says. He takes a deep breath.

"Don't think we should sacrifice anyone! Why are we blindly listening to this? Don't want to sacrifice you!" He motions to Mobius. "Don't want to sacrifice anyone."

He folds his arms.

"Don't like this and definitely don't trust it."

Edgard knows that he is wrong about many things, but this he feels absolutely certain about. That's very rare for him.

"No." He says, quieter this time.

[atonally]

The thump Redvers gives Edgard's back is equal parts approving and patronizing. Not sacrificing anyone: great idea. Not trusting spirits: best idea. But no isn't going to get them very far, seems like.

"We could all try to cleanse it at once," means everyone but Edgard. His head is cocked, considering the mosaic, unaffected by Marcus' attempt. "If it works we're still stuck here, but given some time Marcus can bring a wall down, can't you?"

Lad is implied in his tone. That's his right, having known him when he was one.

His consideration shifts into a survey of the rooms' occupants. Specifically Mobius and the Lady Seeker. They're the ones, the three of them, who have a duty to handle this kind of thing.

"Or we draw straws."