MOD PLOT ↠ HOME FOR RIFTMAS

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone (more or less)
WHAT: Rifter Show & Tell & Steal.
WHEN: Early Wintermarch 9:49 (forward-dated!)
WHERE: The Crossroads and BEYOND.
NOTES: OOC post. Please use appropriate content warnings in your subject lines.

Since Corypheus began opening the Gates, Riftwatch has been noticing pockets of instability in the Crossroads—crumbling platforms, paths newly blocked by rubble or broken bridges, sections where gravity has been shifted and altered in ways unusual even for the Crossroads, with new intrusions of green-tinged rock outcroppings or corners of temple walls. The barriers between the Crossroads, the Fade, and the world are thinning. It's a problem.

But more recently, Riftwatch has been made aware of an ancient artifact known (now; one hopes this isn't its original title) as the Sealing Stone, now in pieces scattered throughout the Crossroads, and the approximate locations of those pieces. If brought together and activated, the Stone may stabilize the barrier between the Crossroads and the other realms and may provide a model Riftwatch could use to reinforce the Veil elsewhere.

So Riftwatch ventures into the Crossroads to retrieve the pieces of the Stone. It's an intensive effort undertaken by large teams, due to the many now-familiar hazards of the Crossroads, the potential for encountering the Venatori that also use the eluvian network, and the need to cover ground as quickly as possible in hopes of finding the artifacts before the Venatori notice the increased Crossroads activity and come join the hunt.

It's not as simple as merely locating the pieces, however. Whenever a group of Riftwatchers get near enough to one of the artifacts, they're alerted first by the triggering of a sort of protection mechanism. In some cases—specifically, on teams without any rifters—spirits suddenly swarm from the metaphorical woodwork in numbers so great and with such hostility that retreat is the only viable option. The spirits chase the teams only as far as necessary to push them away from the artifact's location, then mass into a circling shoal, guarding the spot until they're left alone long enough to decide the risk has passed.

But for groups containing at least one rifter, something with the mechanism goes wrong. Or right, arguably. Rather than being overwhelmed by spirits, they instead find themselves abruptly engulfed by what appears to be a rift, opening suddenly and rapidly large enough to swallow entire masses of people before contracting again to lie in wait like a carnivorous plant for anyone else who comes too close. Those caught in its radius tumble out into what appears to be a new and unfamiliar world–for most. For one or more of the rifters in each group, it will be perfectly familiar.

The first group to encounter this effect will be one including Tony Stark and Stephen Strange, and will drop them and their compatriots straight into midtown traffic. Any groups attempting to travel to the same spot in the Crossroads to investigate the apparent vanishing—whether they have rifters with them or not—will find themselves drawn through the same "rift" almost as soon as they get within sight of the place, before anything can be discerned about their lost fellows. They will likewise emerge into Stark & Strange's United States.

Subsequent groups including other rifters will be seemingly drawn into their companions' worlds by the same effect. In each, Riftwatch will have to navigate local hazards and retrieve a distinctive lyrium-etched artifact, at which point the world will dissolve around them like a dream and they will find themselves back in the Crossroads where they began, in possession of a carved chunk of stone glowing with lyrium runes.

1 ↠ MCU Earth-199999

Alternate-universe Earth, New York and Los Angeles, 2012-2025, Tony Stark & Stephen Strange.

Earth-199999 is very much like contemporary Earth as we know it, featuring the same historic events, same nations, same conventions. For the average person, there is no difference, except that they know magic and aliens and gods and superpowers are all real and have been causing problems for a while now, with NYC as the hub for most of the shenanigans. MCU Earth has also made leaps and bounds in all science fields as compared to real Earth, although these leaps and bounds are not widely accessible, primarily exclusive to private organisations like Stark Industries, mad scientists, and the likes of SHIELD, but can range from interactive three-dimensional holograms through to biotechnology that turns people into supersoldiers.

It's commonplace to see or hear about criminals causing havoc in the streets with superpowers or gadgets, and crime-fighting vigilantes trying to stop them. The Avengers, as the world's first superheroes, became widely-known commercialised celebrities in-universe with merchandise, documentaries, book deals, and memorial murals to the deceased Iron Man.

Special Abilities: Everyone is nerfed to regular human, unless you want a sudden onset of mutant powers. 1 individual themed ability per character; like pyrokinesis, superspeed, superstrength, etc.

Arrival: One main rift opens in the middle of New York City, ejecting our rifters into midtown traffic… except thanks to Strange’s own multiversal mishaps, people in this world will seem astonishingly accustomed to this sight! Bystanders will be startled, but then the rifters will likely be dogged by strangers snapping photos and videos and tweeting about their arrival.

The Fade-constructed timeline will be a little off: the old Avengers tower and its penthouse is still standing and still accessible to Tony, and Strange will also offer up the Sanctum as a sanctuary, and these will be the main mission hubs while the team gets their bearings and tries to locate the artifact. In the meantime: relax, take in the sights, maybe check out a Broadway show, wrangle your new superpowers.

A secondary rift also opens up on Hollywood Boulevard, in case people want to do some helplessly stranded on Earth RP. Tony can very easily find out this has happened and go collect them, with various degrees of efficiency according to what people want out of that OOCly. As this universe will be available to explore for a few IC weeks, people can assume some degree of Stark-provided financial freedom for basics (i.e. clothes and food, burner phones, etc), and they can stay in the Avengers tower and/or the Sanctum.

2 ↠ Shifterverse

Original alternate-universe Earth, Midwest US, 2022, Jude Adjei.

Real-world 2022, but what if Shifters?

Special Abilities: All superpowers are unfortunately nerfed. However, everyone's a Shifter now. Your choice of animal. Enjoy.

Arrival: Everyone will arrive in Yellowstone National Park, which is wholly staffed and operated by Jude's pack, but... not in an area where tourists are routinely and happily welcomed. Welcome to the deep woods and canyons and plains, where Jude's pack has built their den for some several hundred people. Characters will immediately be found by scouts in fur and feathers, who will be guarded and curious, but not hostile. The wolves and ravens will greet the interlopers as equals, and if they aren't offered any violence, they'll be treated as guests. Hundreds of pack members live in a mixture of hand-built cabin homes and meeting places, portable tiny houses and various shared spaces. There is wifi, a greenhouse, lots of tasty food and warm clothing to wear. If they stay several days and prove themselves trustworthy, they might even start to see children out and about, and there's nothing cuter than a toddler who can become a wolf pup at will. (Mind the raven toddlers and the bear cubs. They're less cute.)

3 ↠ Tassia

D&D Original World, Loxley & Richard Dickerson

Tassia is an original Dungeons&Dragons inspired world, a single continent divided into four nations that is otherwise completely isolated from any other possible world beyond it. These nations are Lloryndell, Sylvica, Ifrin, and Promias, and at its centre lies the Cruxal, a university-city of diverse cultural influence.

While Tassia resembles Thedas in its day-to-day technology levels, including its anachronisms, it is more heavily laden with fantastical elements. Along with humans, elves, and dwarves, there are goblins, dragonborn, tritons, tieflings, sentient robots, bird people, centaurs, and more (https://www.dndbeyond.com/races) (but no qunari). There are many different kinds of magic users who wield their powers openly. There are shops full of magic items, potions, and spell scrolls. There are monsters of countless kinds that lurk just about everywhere. Most cultures in the material plane are polytheistic and worship themed gods from the default D&D (Faerun) Pantheon. Some smaller cults and individuals worship ancient fey, fiendish, and eldritch beings who dwell on the outskirts of their respective planes and may provide power to the exceptionally loyal -- for a price.

Special Abilities: You can choose to be a normal depowered person, but you are equally encouraged to take on magical abilities, whether you're a mage or not. In brief, you can be a wizard, whose magic comes from spellbooks and knowledge, a sorcerer, who have innate magical abilities, a bard, who draws their magic from music, words, and performance, a warlock, who has made a pact with a powerful entity in exchange of magical ability, a druid, who draws their magic from nature, and a cleric, whose divine abilities are gifted to them by a deity. (Other classes have magic too, but it might be easier to pick one of these major ones if you are unfamiliar!)

Rather than overthinking it, we recommend you pick whatever sounds fun to flavour your magic with, and then browse magical spells using classes as a filter. (Eighth and ninth level are off limits, and it may be easier to limit yourself further due to how many spells there are.) Given the temporariness of these powers, don't worry too much about how many spells you get or how frequently you can do them, but know that higher level spells (anything above fifth) can only be cast one or twice a day.

Your character may be Tassia-ised, in terms of their race, but in a limited capacity. All humans will stay human, but elves may adopt D&D traits like seeing in the dark.

Arrival: Rifts will open in the streets of the Cruxal. People will be startled by the sudden appearance of rifters and stand offish, but otherwise: they've seen it all before! No one will be calling the guard on you, unless you decide to start something, so please don't. Or enjoy jail.

The Cruxal is a labyrinthian melting pot built up in concentric rings around a massive central university and library. Goblins scarper among humans, elves, and dwarves in the street. There are tusked half orcs and horned, scale-clad dragonborn mixed in among more familiar silhouettes. This is a university town, but while a large portion of the population are students, academics, and staff, it is also self-sustaining, with taverns, shops, temples, brothels, residences, and marketways.

The university itself is guarded and degrees of entry closely regulated due to the school’s extensive collection of dangerous artifacts -- one of which just so happens to have gone missing last night. News of the theft has been suppressed, but every temple, tavern, and brothel on the outskirts of town is abuzz with the rumor. The entire corridor, they say, was scorched black.

Loxley and Richard won't be too concerned about herding everyone but can provide some coin as needed for inn rooms and food. They appear to have a near bottomless stash, at least as far as living costs go.

4 ↠ Sulleciel

Original fantasy world, Petrana de Cedoux.

What if magic was real and holy emperors still kissed the ring in Rome, until someone beheaded the fucking pope? Welcome to Sulleciel, and specifically to Lamor City, capitol of Lamorre and the seat of the Lamorran empire, ruled over by Empereur Marius IX and his consort, Empress Petrana Solene. A nation and empire in the throes, still, of great upheaval — think Versailles or Orlais, but lurching ungainly out of its dark ages into a theoretically more enlightened time, control of which is being actively fought in the halls of power and at grassroots levels of social influence. Power vacuums abound, thanks to the fall of the church and the rise of a conqueror who is less interested in ruling than he was conquering; women are still the often-illiterate property of their fathers and husbands, but now there are more alternatives to family and marital homes, and dedicated studies of witchcraft are being encouraged, with pilot programs across the empire primarily in those early sanctuary cities, figuring out how this is all going to work. Known for her efforts to lean on the scales in the people's favour Petrana herself is, in this era, rumored to be imprisoned; graffiti of her crowned likeness can be found in some places in the city, with the epithet ""la reine du malheur"".

Special Abilities: In Sulleciel, magic is a skill that may be pursued like any other — and there are those of more or less talent, as if someone were to attempt the violin, or swordplay. It is practised primarily through incantations and foci, with more elaborate spellwork for more ambitious results sometimes requiring particular items or a full coven to achieve. As magic is limited in Sulleciel only by the will, imagination and stamina of those practising it, no one coming here will be subject to any nerfs; all mages and otherwise magical or powered individuals will be able to use their powers as they're used to using them. In addition to this, anyone who is as magical as a chair-leg ordinarily can feel free to have a go at Sulleciel's magic — it's up to you if they have a knack for it or not. Simple spells like casting a light or telekinesis of small objects can be mastered by toddlers; a powerful enough witch or coven might be able to summon a thunderstorm and alter weather patterns, but ""can"" and ""should"" are different and it's generally advised that you try not to do a climate change.
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Arrival: The rift will open into a spacious, luxuriously-appointed tower on the grounds of the imperial palace but not visibly connected to it above-ground. It was at one point the sole domain of the previous arciduc's personal astronomers, but is now the primary residence and working space of the Queen's Coven. The Queen's Coven is a particular group of women, so named for having been among the first witches to come beneath the new regime's protection in the first city-state to bend the knee where Petrana was first installed as Queen Regent; they are private, secretive, and increasingly cut off from the power-struggles of the imperial court, having been actively distanced from the Empress herself by a variety of other players in the game. Both relatively prepared for sudden magical happenings and inclined to keep shit in the tower on lock, they will be prepared to pass you all off as "foreign witches, seeking our enlightenment" and see both you and the sudden access to Petrana as potentially useful in their maneuverings. Which will make moving around easier, but will probably be an active hindrance to getting where and what you need. An underground tunnel connects the tower directly to the palace, though there are also pleasant, covered pathways to walk across the palace grounds; guards at the main, above-ground entrance to the tower will inquire about movements to and from, and will be skeptical but limit their interference initially ... as long as they don't see Petrana.

5 ↠ Kalvad

Original fantasy world, Wysteria Poppell.

Kalvad—specifically the city of Somerset, the magic capitol of the civilized world—is a mashup of Regency Era and Industrial-Revolution-But-Magic! Nebulously England (with the serial numbers aggressively filed off). When in doubt, default to Jane Austen vibes. But if it seems fun to do some weird magic-powered technological advancements, then go nuts.

Kalvad is an imperial island nation ostensibly ruled by three kings, though they're largely figureheads overseeing an upper and lower parliament. The country has made itself rich and powerful by doing a whole lot of war and colonization. As historically one of the most magically powerful regions in the world, magicians have long been a vital tool in the empire's efforts to do both those things.

Unfortunately for Kalvad, the strength of magic in the world has waned considerably in the last 40 years. Where once Talent was rare but reasonably powerful, magic users are both becoming more commonplace and considerably weaker. Even older magicians and hedge-witches who once might have manufactured considerable arcane feats have seen some diminishing of their powers. A popular, but unproven, theory in academic circles is that those with Talent all draw from the same "well" of magic. As more people are born with the ability to tap into that resource, the less there is to go around. Resentment for those with weaker Talents among older generations of magic users is A Thing.

That said, increased availability of minor magics has kick-started a 'minor magic' powered industrial revolution. Parlor witches who perform small arcane conveniences are growing in number; minor charms and enchantments have become more readily available to lower classes. Meanwhile, the non-magical population is slowly being shunted out of their respective cottage industry jobs and into factories powered by great enchanted machines. The empire as the world knows it is clearly teetering on the brink of major social and political upheaval, both at home and abroad. The consequences of all this change just haven't quite played themselves out yet, though you can bet there are people rushing around in an attempt to cover their asses before they do.

Special Abilities Characters will be nerfed of any abilities they had in Thedas, but can be Talented in Kalvad terms or not. Any Talented character under 40 is likely to be able to produce only minor magics (think lighting fires in fireplaces, being able to heal minor injuries, and temporarily being able to enchant objects to do one specific thing). Anyone over forty can be a little flashier (think appearance altering glamors, temporary invisibility, transfiguration and significant healing). General magic flavor is: Brothers Grimm fairy tales and Arthurian legends, except that someone somewhere made all that weirdly pliable magic adhere to a strict ruleset. Easy, thoughtless channeling of magic is a secret lost long before the arcane powers in the world began to diminish. Now, all magic must be carefully and deliberately designed and constructed. The magicians most accomplished by Kalvadan standards are methodical and patient. Think clockmakers and mathematicians, not wizards on the side of a van.

Arrival: Members of Riftwatch will arrive through a rift and find themselves on the wooded outskirts of a sprawling city. Luckily, no one will witness their initial arrival. Even more convenient: once they've gotten their bearings and made their way into the city, they'll discover they aren't the only weird strangers in town (although they may want to strongly consider indulging in petty theft to make themselves stick out less—particularly as it comes time to infiltrate places). It seems that a sprawling months-long academic conference turned party turned cover for political intrigue and cold warfare has descended upon Somerset.

In the aftermath of what everyone is claiming to be a major military victory somewhere, delegations from a number of implicated countries have converged on the city at the invitation of the Kalvadan Crowns in order to share and demonstrate their various technical and arcane achievements. The World's Fair-like atmosphere has drawn a number of non-Talented tourists, scheming politicians, and cutthroat spies along with the legitimately academically and/or magically inclined.

While Somerset is something of a city of wonders by the world's estimation, it's still first and foremost a dirty and crowded industrial hub in a world that has yet to bother with paving all its major roads. The conference has quadrupled that effect, transforming it into a riot of sights, sound, and (often to its detriment) smells. At this point, finding a room and board in the city has become less a question of where you want to stay and more one of how many other people you're willing to timeshare a bed with.

Luckily, it doesn't seem like Riftwatch will be sticking around long. Some snooping around the of pamphleting/gossip will reveal that the artifact they're after is likely to be found in the grand exhibition hall, and that there will be an opportunity to get their hands on it that evening.

6 ↠ Abeir-Toril

D&D Forgotten Realms, Astarion

The D&D continent of Faerûn is loosely based on Eurasia—if it ran entirely on magic, was roughly stuck somewhere in the 14th century forever, and was filled to the brim with elves, dragons, gnolls, faeries, gods, demi-gods, and just about any myth (or mythological creature) you’ve ever encountered in your life. For the purpose of simplicity, everyone from Riftwatch is going to get plunked down in the titular Baldur’s Gate: the city is massive, it’s known as the jewel of Faerûn, and its cultures, districts, trades and pastimes reflect that remarkable splendor. Still, think of it like Kirkwall in that there are some pretty damn rigid socioeconomic divides separating the city via districts. QUICK GUIDE.

The Upper City is the fancy part of town where nobles (known as Patriar) and their servants live, and it also houses the city’s government and key recreational buildings. There are no bars, pubs, taverns or drinking halls. Anything rowdy happens behind closed doors, and if you don't have an invitation, you'd better look for fun somewhere else. Magical enchantments and lanterns make it beyond stunning at night to stroll through. Lower City is more varied: you’ll find taverns, shops, tons of entertainment and ample trade, as well as pirates by the docks (and their ships), and the harbor waters are absolutely gorgeous for sailing on calm days. Doors are shut and locked during nighttime hours aside from taverns, inns or gambling parlors. Visibility is also lower at night when harbor fog rolls in, particularly where poorer residents can't afford oil, tallow or magic every night. The Undercity stretches deep (and hidden) beneath both the Upper and Lower Cities: it begins at its most shallow within the city as sewers and along seawall cliffs as open-mouthed caves. The deeper you go, the worse it gets: undead catacombs, cultists, temples, blood sport and bloody magic prevail alongside monsters too dangerous to clear out. Outer City sucks. There's almost next to no law or order, and is inherently dangerous to explore. Treat it like Lowtown for the most part, and you'll be pretty smack on (slavers and actual kind impoverished poor included).

CULTURE: Baldur’s Gate is primarily run by humans, and to a lesser extent, elves. Other races aren’t really considered a foothold here, but they’re more than welcome in the city and treated exceptionally well with a few exceptions here and there (ogres, trolls, more ferally inclined goblins, etc). This is not at all like Thedas: someone more familiar with discrimination against non-humans, certain pairings and particularly mages wouldn't find it here. Most of the time if you dress nicely and carry yourself well, you’ll be well respected. Or robbed. Or both!

Special Abilities: Characters will be adjusted to fit D&D, and powers are optional for all. For D&D’s magic/power/race everything, please take a look at some basic classes.

Arrival: Characters will arrive via rifts torn into the Outer City, just along its riverfront sprawl. They won’t be too far from the city gates, but witnesses to the scene will be inclined to gossip and gawk, assuming everything from a freak magical incident to believing the new arrivals are wealthy travelers from somewhere far and exotic, who simply missed their mark in teleporting to the Upper City for sightseeing. Anyone wearing Thedosian clothes will be fine to go without changing— wearing something more modern or say, nothing at all for some reason, will definitely require staging some kind of Terminator II style clothing (theft) acquisition in order to fit in.

Ideally, the team will at least want to make their way into Lowtown in order to begin snooping around, but it’s a big damn city to say the least, and information is expensive. Astarion will help within reason, but being a vampire means that he can only afford to fund so much on his own.

Might be a good idea to do some fetch quests or live your best Adventuring Party life, because you’re all going to likely be here for a (time distorted) relative while.

7 ↠ Orphan Black

Alternate-Universe Earth, 2014; Toronto, Canada; Cosima Neihaus.

Real-world mid-2010s, but secret unethical biology/biotech experiments including viable human cloning in the mid 1980s. Carrying out such technologically advanced work is a combination of international organizations including a private research company, at least one paramilitary organization and a shadowy organization that oversees both. (Orphan Black also features minor differences from our world typical of its genre, such as plot-convenient hacking and variably competent law enforcement, but the cloning project and related scientific offshoots are the most salient differences.) Relevant to this plot in particular, the Dyad Institute is a private organization, considered ""fringe"" by the mainstream scientific community, devoted to research related to human evolution and biotechnology. Some of its many employees had connections to the ""neolutionism"" community, the members of which believed human evolution should be actively shaped by scientific and technological intervention. The organization was responsible for the project that created Cosima and her sisters roughly 30 years before in-world present day. Also at the moment they're jumping to, Cosima works there, it's complicated. (If anyone is familiar with the canon, we're jumping in circa season two.)
A tiny pinboard.

Special Abilities: None, you're all just unpowered humans. Sorry/you're welcome.

Arrival: The group arrives at what turns out to be a nondenominational winter party for a local school; there are some mild shenanigans as Cosima clocks that it's a school attended by children she knows, and more pressingly, partially overseen by their mother, who has Cosima's face. Cosima press gangs one or more other people into helping her hide her own face while negotiating with Alison to borrow her minivan. She shuttles the group to Alison's large suburban Toronto home, which becomes the FR group's base of operation. (It is perhaps telling that while Alison finds this frustrating, she and her husband Donnie do sort of roll with it also.) If desired/depending on how big the group is, Cosima could also stow some Riftwatchers with Felix, the foster brother of one of her other clones, who has a big artsy loft downtown. She is not against taking anyone to her place, but she's a grad student; it's not huge. Everyone who knows how to use a phone or can be trusted to figure it out with a tutorial gets a burner phone for convenience. (Perhaps additionally telling how quickly Alison gets everyone a burner phone. She also decorates the protective cases for them. No, it's not optional.)

8 ↠ The Last of Us

Post-Apocalyptic Earth, Spring 2038, Seattle, Abby Lasterson & Ellie Williams.

This world was ours until 2013, when a worldwide pandemic broke out overnight. A fungus (cordyceps) that had originally infected mainly insects adapted to infect human beings. Anyone bitten by an infected person or who has breathed in a significant or concentrated amount of fungal spores becomes infected themselves. Over a maximum of two days, they utterly lose their humanity and deteriorate into violent monsters, eventually sprouting spores and fungal plates. There is no known cure, and the only human being ever known to be immune is Ellie Williams. 25 or so years later, humanity has crumbled into various factions in a struggle to survive. First came the Federal (FEDRA) response, resulting in Quarantine Zones and martial law. Life in the zones is highly regulated, with work assignments and rations that often aren't enough to go around. Many citizens are forced to turn to crime just to make ends meet. Orphaned children become wards of the state and are trained to become FEDRA soldiers by the time they're sixteen.

Various civilian groups rose up to rebel against FEDRA, forming factions such as the Fireflies (rebels who recruited scientists in an effort to find a cure), and the Washington Liberation Front (a militia-minded organization who overthrew FEDRA in Seattle). There are other smaller groups such as the religious zealots called the Seraphites, or the violent slavers known as the Rattlers.

Few and far between are independent human settlements like Jackson of Wyoming, where small communities have managed to gain self-sufficiency and safety with tireless group effort and highly vigilant defenders. They bolster their numbers by welcoming peaceful outsiders and engaging in trade with travelers.

Living outside of these groups, people are largely on their own, vulnerable to packs of hunters, bandits and even cannibals that prey on anyone brave enough to risk travel.

The infected are an ever-present threat everywhere, and the world is a ruin quickly being reclaimed by nature. (cw: body horror in the link) See board for world aesthetic and depictions of the Infected.

Special Abilities: Everyone is a normal human here. No supernatural powers, no magic, no non-humans.

Arrival: Welcome one of Ellie and Abby's least favorite places: Seattle. The Space Needle is visible in the distance, so despite the advanced state of decay, it's actually recognizable. Except it's been bombed, and rotting, and nature's reclaimed it for the last quarter-century. This adventure won't be for the faint of heart; there are no home bases and no safe space to be had. All clothing, supplies, weaponry and food are things you'll need to find yourself. Everyone can assume they'll get a quick lesson in gun safety and a rundown on various types of infected. Multiple rifts will open, so feel free to appear anywhere in the city (even apart from others) but expect to find no native allies. The city of Seattle is embroiled in civil war between the Seraphites (a religious cult who rejects anything "old world" and scars their faces, called "Scars") and the Washington Liberation Front (a ruthless mercenary coalition, called "Wolves") and both sides will assume you're with the other group and attack on sight. Better pick up a brick.

Comments

silver ↠ abeir-toril

[katabasis]

The Outer City is a choked tangle of streets either knit so close so as to be perpetually gloomy in the shadow of crooked upper levels nearly touching facades across the squiggly walking paths below them, or just wide enough for the luxury of daylight to start stinking in. This particular less than trustworthy balcony overlooks one of the latter, and the stench of salt brine coming up off the water mingled with whiff of sweat and mud and Maker knows what else will probably have entrenched its way into their clothes by the time the transaction they're surveilling down by the waterfront has concluded.

Flint, having grown weary of sitting there with an eye pressed to a spyglass, had surrendered it over to John a few minutes prior. Presumably, not much has changed regarding their persons of interest—a minor hireling of the Upper City auction house which they've determined holds the Sealing Stone fragment in it, and the crowded dice game in which he's currently being made destitute—in the interim.

Subsequently, Flint's attention has wandered to his dented cup of wine and to the stub of a candle on the cramped barely-a-table between them. The flick of his fingers near the tiny flame is nearly absent. Not unconscious, but compulsive. Like pressing on a bruise or sucking blood from a split knuckle. The minor tongue of fire brightens and dims in answer, wandering from orange to yellow, to pale blue and sickly rift-bright green, and then back again. A pulse of blue, and of yellow, and of orange.

"I'm beginning to suspect we may run out of money before he does."

There's a quick staircase from this balcony and a neat little side alley all but designed for interception at their disposal. The woman they're renting it from is charging a premium that suggests this isn't her first time acting as an accessory to scoundrels.

[doggish]

[Three things occur to him, one after another. Three thoughts that trip over one another in their haste to be heard, yammering as Leto stares at hollow eyes and intent stare.

The first is this: that he does not care for what danger Astarion brings, for he knows in his heart of hearts that his beloved would never hurt him.

It's a nice thought. He's glad, later on, that such a loving thought was his first impulse. It speaks to how instinctively he trusts Astarion, that even when his beloved bares his teeth and warns him away, still, some part of Leto would still have blind faith in that love. That first thought is born from besotted love and overwhelmed relief; it is the answer to that utterance of home that slips past Astarion's lips, the summation of their hearts' adoration.

But the second thought, far more practical, is this: that Astarion is not one to shirk from telling Leto what he wants. He isn't a selfish lover, not to his Leto, not where it counts, but still: Maker knows Astarion will demand exactly what he wants when he wants it, and that surely includes blood. And on top of that: Astarion has never been one to treat Leto with kid gloves. He has always viewed his lover as a fierce, capable warrior, more than able to hold his own and withstand any violent advances that Astarion might make— gods, one of their first dates centered around stabbing one another. So if he is warning Leto away, if he is so overwhelmed that he needs to hurt himself to stop the welling urge to snarl and bite and tear, well . . . surely he means it.

And the third thought, whimpered as Leto stares at glinting eyes and listens to the flat note in Astarion's tone, is this: that it takes only a few seconds for disaster to strike. That it is a fool who looks at a snarling, seething wolf with hackles raised in defensive warning and thinks it a pretty lapdog. That Astarion would not push him away (with such strength, and the part of him ever wary takes note of that, just as he takes note of all those distinct features, claws and keen vision and sharpened teeth) unless he had good reason.

And understand: he is afraid. He stares at Astarion and sees him for what he is: a predator. A monster, not because he is cursed, but because even a wolf will bow its head low when it's faced with an alpha. His pulse picks up, a shudder running up his spine— oh, yes, he sees him, all of him, and just as Astarion's instincts breathe to him that Leto is nothing but food, so too do Leto's own instincts scream to flee. Run or hide or fight, but above all else, react, for surely if he doesn't, it will mean his death.

But they are more than their instincts.

Slowly, he exhales.]

All right.

[He will not do Astarion the disservice of ignoring all that he just said. All right, and he says it quietly, emerald eyes locked on crimson ones, letting him see all of him in return. His fear. His shock. And then: his acceptance.

His lover is a predator. A dangerous creature. But he is not a beast, ruled purely by slavering instinct and little else— and nor is Leto nothing but mewling prey, helplessly waiting to be consumed. They will adapt to this, just as they have adapted to everything this past year.]

My ears are longer, and my eyes smaller, though my senses are not altered. My hair is as it was years ago. My lyrium is gone, and all I have left are tattooed markings that have no power, but come with no pain. My feet are uselessly soft. My vision is keener in the darkness, but not as good as yours, I suspect. And I am still as deft as I used to be with a sword, but I will have to relearn how to fight.

[He pushes overlong bangs out of his eyes, a casual action as deliberately invoked as Astarion's stare.]

And if you are as unwilling to part as I am, then we need to slip into the darkness together, for I will not see you starve.

[illithidnapped]

[All right. And what it really means is: I see you.

In the dying dark, closer to morning than nightfall, with his chest and his vision flooded by entropic hunger (claws anchored into lifeless flesh, staining the front of Leto's tunic a tarry shade of red, punctuating everything that's been said), Astarion shouldn't be surprised. Because all that lifts its head to meet him is the only thing that has ever lived between them: understanding.

That willingness to stare into the worst of it all and not flinch for shallow fear.

What drove two elves onto the Foundry rooftop to spar like friends and talk like strangers, no matter how vividly it hurt. What meant warm sheets. Tangled ankles. Muttered promises to someone out of reach in either direction— it doesn't matter if you don't remember me meeting you're not a demon, with both ending in that same, stubborn commitment to always straying closer. And closer. Through the Crossroads. Through second guesses in Rialto: pacing footsteps in the hall and a curtain yanked out of place. Scratched over words in enchanted books over a need to search for someone dear— or dearly dangerous. A vampire. A weapon. Sharing the same bed. Bound by rights to someone else and yet—


I see you for what you are— and I'm not running.


Like a lens shutter silently clicking. Like a second pair of lids washing over peregrine eyes, whatever unsettling cast Astarion slid into reddened eyes unwinds itself and evaporates. A single blink all it takes for the relative humanity to nestle back into its still dilated den. Hooded stare heavy and dark, but nothing more.

(What a brave little thing, his wolf.)

It's enough to know the rest. And strewth, there's so much more he's tempted to ask, now that distance and a closed-off wound's made it nominally less excruciating to tamp down on his own hunger (in part) or scrape up even a somewhat cohesive thought— but even fascinating revelations have their limits, particularly in an herbalist shop's shuttered closet.

Well.

That, and the mention of slipping away together.]

All right.

[Slowly said. A perfect echo of Leto's own prior intonation, only crafted out of the most cautious little exhale of palpably frigid breath.

Grip slackened at last. Lips beginning to curl at their corners.

He's finding his footing again.]

But if we're going to escape into the night together, my dear Eladrin [and how amusing it is to say that for the first time with absolutely literal sincerity] then you'd better hope you have a decent place for us to retreat to in short order, because we certainly can't stay here—

[His fingers lift themselves high, ruddy claws splayed wide in a self-serving shrug that's all characteristic fuss.]

And thanks to you, I don't have anywhere to run back to, either.

[bouchonne]

Byerly leans his head closer to Bastien's and hums thoughtfully. After a moment, he says, "Perhaps my imagination is simply failing. Perhaps we do have the will, and I simply can't come up with the means. But I cannot see a circumstance where all life ends in Thedas. Even Blights are stopped in time."

He scratches his cheek, frowning thoughtfully. But what, then, if Thedas did have a technology of the scale of the bombs and diseases and poisons they have here on Earth? Would the Divine not use such a weapon against Corypheus, if she could? Would Corypheus not use it upon Ferelden? No; Bastien is quite right. There is nothing about the people of Thedas that would keep them from such brutal means. It's merely the opportunity.

"In that dream," the one some years ago, at the same wintry time, "I dreamed myself attempting to kill Provost Stark, to stop him making weapons. Do you recall that?"

[doggish]

[Oh, there you are, his heart whispers. Not a relief-filled cry of shock (no, that was what the summation of their desperate kisses had been, I missed you, I feared I'd never see you again, are you safe, are you whole), but rather a slow exhale. There you are, my darling, the two of them falling into step once more, finding their rhythm and their flow after what felt a lifetime of separation. There you are, there you are, and he dares to reach for him now, fingers snagging gently against the hem of his shirt to tug playfully once or twice as he pulls back.]

I did not force you to flee your den. And it is gratifying to know my investigative skills are not lacking, even after all this time.

[Tartly said, if not fondly, as he gently pulls him along towards the window. Any other spawn have surely fled by now, for the most opportune time to attack would have been when they were consumed with their reunion. And indeed: the rooftops are empty as he hoists himself up there, shivering faintly as the breeze cuts through thin clothing.

It isn't so far to the tavern where he's been holed up. Cheapness is the watchword of this particular institution, from the rates they charge to the quality of ale they offer, but what it does have is a private entrance. True, it's a set of rickety stairs that leads up to the second floor, and yes, that does offer another point of attack if any opportunistic thieves think him easy prey, but at least it's private. He's come to value that, here in this world where he can finally and truly move without notice.]

Mm. Tell me how much you need to sate you for the night. I suspect an animal's blood will be far easier to obtain, but slavers or thieves cannot be so hard to find either.

[He unlocks the door and slips inside without a second thought, assuming Astarion will follow him in. Of course he will. They've never stood on propriety before.]

For that matter: tell me what things you need. We can block the window, for I know sunlight is deadly to you. But I—

[Er. He turns, blinking at the still open doorway.]

Astarion?

[illithidnapped]

[What a world they live in ( —oh, Astarion, worlds) that the mention of hunting slavers twists him into the very picture of a finebred buck at court for the first time— all spry and restlessly eager as he devours each and every word that drifts into his upturned ears, eyes glittering in their kohl-lined sockets. Grinning as though his heart might burst; face an unknowingly mimicked reflection of all the excitable, earnest little starlings he'd lured into fanged mouths over the years, proving that desire has a way of making everyone a little weak. A little blind. A little puppishly transparent.

Even the things that go bump in the night.

In other words: soundlessly slipping along in Leto's shadow, he is a tame thing, now. Soft-mouthed and sweet, bounding after the mortal that dominates his loyalty. Figurative tail wagging by way of tucking in every last one of his predatory edges—

Mm. Aside from the gore and viscera, anyways.

So thank the Maker they're in the lower reaches of the city, where anyone that just so happens to spot them trotting through the alleyways towards those shoddy wooden stairs would only write it off as the odd adventuring pair returning fresh from slaying wyverns or gnolls— or perhaps from clearing out the Undercity for a Patriar who pays his finest assets in pocket change and silken lint. Boots thunking heavily as they pace up over planks that feel as sturdy as loose teeth, still busy threading unincriminating subjects together (You know you did chase me from my home, even if it was indirectly. How much are they charging you for a room so close to the docks? Have you even fought anything since coming to the city? —tonight doesn't count: I did all the work for you.) until he hisses through the gaps of his fangs to hear Leto mention sunlight's telltale lethality before the door's been shut and locked—

And hisses again to instinctively follow his packmate across the threshold as he would've done in Thedas, only to feel his body stiffen and twinge in the kind of rejection that pushes rabid beasts away from water— stuck precisely where he stands. Able to turn and leave, or stay, but not lean forward. Not even by degrees.

It must look unsettling. Like his hackles are raised; a guard dog bristling even while its master calls it closer.]

I can't.

[He answers.

And for the same reason he can't just blurt out 'I'll never fit my fangs to another animal again' into the cold night air whilst standing outside a presumably occupied tavern with all its cracked walls and possibly open windows, he can't up and tell his darling to officially invite him in, either. Not without seeming suspicious enough to wake up with a stake through his heart.


So.

There he is.

Glazed in blood, wearing tattered leathers and a blouse so ruined its open collar almost shows off his entire left shoulder, booted heels planted firmly in place, barely an inch outside the doorway. Just.

Staring.

Like, really really hard.]

....I....wouldn't want to be rude.

[portalling]

“Oh, definitely, get at least one in before we wind up moving on from here.” He’s just going to keep operating on the assumption that they will, in fact, figure out a way to get back; anything else is too bleak to consider for the Theodosians. As Julius clears some space off a chair to sit down, Strange adds, “Mind that purple gem, it’s actually a dimensional cage— I really should get better about tidying up after myself—” and absentmindedly sweeps some stacks of messy paperwork out of the way, so the other man is less at risk of sitting on and being swallowed into a pocket dimension.

“And movies are more like… a recording of a play. A play being played out by performers, but with fantastic illusions to enhance the stagecraft.” He wonders if the Theodosians might react to them like the first people to see moving pictures, terrified by a train approaching the screen; he wonders if it’s cruel to be amused by the mental image, or just pleased that they get to experience this for the first time.

“There’s theaters everywhere within walking distance, if you have two hours to kill. And, lamentably, it does seem we have those hours to kill. You haven’t heard of any leads yet, have you?”

sry for the lateness!! this month has been ridic

[portalling]

For a moment, it’s like time has collapsed and fallen in on itself with an unerring sense of deja vu: he’s reminded of being a younger Stephen Strange in med school, sitting up late studying in the kitchen when his dormmates came stumbling in tipsy, descending on the fridge for cold pizza. Sometimes he’d been the one coming back from a party, flush with getting to enjoy a city which never slept, spending his student loan money where he shouldn’t. And so he looks up, sees the younger man come weaving in, and quirks a smile with a bit of nostalgia behind it.

“Evening,” he says, then, “I’m almost always up late.”

Strange gestures to the rest of the dark kitchen, over his cup of tea and stack of old scrolls. “The fridge and cabinets have actual drinks and snacks, if you need any. I checked; none of them are cunningly-disguised gremlins.”

Exaggerating joke or truth? Maybe the latter.

[portalling]

Stephen leans closer to look at the display on that tablet, and then exhales slowly; that piece of knowledge feels like a heavy weight tossed onto the board. Theories, hypotheses, proofs. They can’t fully prove or disprove this reality either way, not when their situation is malleable as it is, but…

“So you suspect it’s not really home,” he says, and he can’t pick through exactly how he feels about that. A stiff disappointment laced through his words, although he tries his best to tamp it back and excise it from his voice.

(Did he really think it would have been that easy? There and back again, a short jaunt to Thedas and then suddenly miraculously home within three months?)

Stephen had once seen Hong Kong roiling backwards on itself, time spooling in reverse like someone hitting rewind on the VCR. He had once seen Thanos’ victory looped over and over and over. He had once lived in the same moment over and over and over, a few minutes trapped in a snowglobe. It hadn’t seemed impossible that this New York could be similarly afflicted to explain its discordant timeline,

but, well.

He shakes his head. “Occam’s Razor. I can go on about temporal anomalies and irregularities and shattered universes, but the simplest explanation is always preferable. And the simplest theory: this is still the Fade.”

[doggish]

[The thing about traveling to another world (that Astarion must know so intimately, but that Leto is only just discovering) is this: no one gives you a handbook on social norms. No one sits you down and says good news: no one cares if you're an elf anymore, that's a first-class citizen around here— but we do have a certain subclass around here, a category of monster that includes things you've only barely heard of. All the rules are changed. All the things he'd normally be on automatic alert for when it comes to Astarion (elvish, always, that is the rule Leto abides by, and how many nights have they spent leaping over rooftops instead of risking the streets? How many times have they heard casual derisives or leering comments murmured as they wandered Lowtown?) are useless now.

So he does not understand why Astarion hisses in displeasure, not at first. He does not understand what a risk he incurs by mentioning sunlight and blood, nor why Astarion stares at him with such urgency as he talks about manners.

For the other truth of the matter, the one that Leto is discovering over and over again tonight and will for weeks on end, is this: he does not know what it is to have a vampiric mate, not really. It's obvious Astarion is trying to tell him something, but Maker only knows what. They stare at one another for a bewildering few seconds, until one dark eyebrow raises.]

You . . . aren't.

[No, that clearly isn't the right thing to say. He takes a few steps back towards the door. And you know, it isn't such a hard puzzle to solve when he stops overthinking it? I wouldn't want to be rude, an inability to enter into what is technically Leto's abode, the intensity of his stare, no, he can connect the dots quickly enough. It's just that he never knew that was a thing, not for vampires— and gods, but that lack of knowledge embarrasses him. He ought to know this. He will know this, for he'll spend tonight quizzing Astarion on every bit of vampiric lore and consideration he ought to know, but first:]

Er. Come in?

[A little awkwardly, he offers his hand, because, like, who the fuck knows with vampiric rules? Maybe it's touch-based. Who knows! ]

[katabasis]

The airship is on fire.

And quiet stings in the ear—unnatural, as piercing as one of the many bolts, or sword's points, or the array of jagged teeth currently in play on the airship's deck amidst the sweep of black smoke.

What is conspicuously lacking in helpful sharp edges is Flint's current armament. He's just shoved the hand crossbow ordinarily in his possession into Gwenaëlle's hands, and the sword at his hip is practically affectation. Don't let him get eaten must go unsaid even if it weren't obligated to as Flint falls to the block and tackle securing one of the ship's ballista. It won't be impossible to crank the killing machine around to engage the wyrm on deck; it will only take precious time to make it happen.

[heirring]

We do! Yes! There is a map, [has the less than confidence inspiring sound of a young lady who has in fact only just remembered the folding paper map she'd stuffed into the console space between the seats she and Viktor currently occupy. The volume at which Wysteria shouts this back from the cab does not, in fact, increase the reassuring qualities of this statement.]

Viktor, if you would be so kind as to attend to it I believe I have everything quite under control now. I would propose we make our way to Getty Center. It's drawn on a hill in the map, and sounds like a far more likely location for a rendezvous than the tar pits.

[Yes, see, everything is under control. She has even drawn her head back in from the window and has begun to make sense of the spiderweb cracks across the windshield. So focused is she to the task that she is certainly not regarding the reflection of the rest of the phaeton's occupants in the mirror stuck up it, lest she spy Enchanter Rowntree looking there— No, she has glanced back. But only just very briefly, and only to consider Mister Dickerson's dazed appearance with a very, very slight measure of guilt.

(What also has nothing to do with them: the blaring of horns and squawk of brakes as they blast through an intersection.)]

[armd]

"We have a couple hours." And she doesn't especially want to see Ellie's face if they come back with nothing to show for their time wasted, so she points out the dead end of a street coming into view up the hill as they walk, some old cul-de-sac heralding the start of an old neighbourhood.

"There's always something," she says, reassurance for them both, "Just- depends on how desperate you are. Shoes for example," considering the sad little boot Clarisse just chucked aside, "We had this running joke back at the stadium that you could only pick two things about shoes you find: they fit you, they aren't completely ruined and disgusting, they're practical."

[heirring]

We will assess the options together, [is, all things considered, a practically diplomatic way of saying she has no firm contraption in mind to disturb, nor much more familiarity with the pieces on question than Vanya does. He is a Templar. —Was a Templar. Surely he must know magic when he sees it as plainly as she might.

Well. Maybe not quite so plain as all that, but surely these are all easily parsed principles.

And, the more relevant point:]

I suspect most of them will answer to being turned over. Accidentally, of course.

[heorte]

There's no reason to say aloud what they all must already know: Abby is lucky to be alive.

And she had no warning, no time to prepare. Some part of her survival must be pure luck, but the rest is down to resourcefulness, natural ability. An understanding of the thing she was fighting, which none of them apart from Ellie could begin to cultivate to a noteworthy level.

"How much time do you think we'll have to prepare on our end?"

Not enough, Ellis knows.

They're talking about little and less. They aren't inhabiting a safe place.

[portalling]

Strange’s eyebrow ticks upwards in gentle incredulity as he watches Ellis’ quiet, capable MacGuyvering of the pole. He opens his mouth, on the verge of delivering some sort of pithy commentary, but he thankfully wrestles it down at the last moment.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds, or, in this instance, the hand that helpfully straps sharp implements to your blunt weapon.

“Is that really going to work, you think?” he asks, scooting a little forward in his seat so he can watch the impromptu upgrade. It’s undoubtedly better than empty hands, but he can’t get over the alien simplicity of it all. It feels absurd. It feels like caveman shit. Might as well start wielding a wooden club.

“Duct tape and scissors. How far the mighty have fallen.”

[notathreat]

Even Ellie can't accurately fathom what's down there. Abby's described it to her, but all Ellie can picture is a Bloater, but somehow bigger. More disgusting. Some kind of horrible, suffering, bloodthirsty thing that used to be people.

They've been suffering for a long time.

"As long as it takes for us to get enough gas masks. I won't need one, but if it's that infested, you all need protection or you won't be able to breathe the air without it killing you."

Re: cw eye stuff

[notathreat]

"You can't go and say shit like that without explaining."

Ellie does smile, eyebrows lifting. It's part grimace, because gross. "You built a machine to put somebody's eye out? Like a trap?"

[portalling]

To his credit: he doesn’t choke on his drink this time.

But Strange does snort an undignified laugh, and lets his wine glass sink until he’s balancing it against the arm of the sofa, safely waiting until it’s a bit less likely to go down his windpipe. Best not to tempt fate. He’d almost forgotten that he’d told her about it. Mortifying.

“I told you that in confidence and now look what you’re doing with that very privileged information,” he says, mock-aggrieved, mock-despairing. Embarrassed but only gently so; it actually feels oddly good to have someone ribbing him. Turnabout is fair play, considering what a terror he’d been at Kamar-Taj, so the balance of the universe isn’t right unless someone’s bullying Stephen Strange right back. It’s familiar. It feels comfortably friendly in a way he’s been missing.

“And I can, yes. Most of the other Theodosians have walked right past the spot without knowing.” He knows she knows Tony, so he puts two-and-two together a moment later: “You’ve been staying at Stark Tower, right? You haven’t seen the Sanctum yet?”

[heorte]

Quasi-retirement.

This is easier for Ellis to take in stride. The quality of their relationship, the role Tony has assumed in the span of time they've known each other, makes this descriptor fit more easily than it might have if Tony had come at an earlier, more hands-on point in time.

Noting the minor theft, Ellis is afforded a beat of time to think of who else might have prompted Tony's relocation to the woodshed: a daughter. a son.

This is not what Ellis chooses to pursue.

"You have a woodshed," is skepticism, equal parts fond and wary. Ellis has seen no sign of a woodshed, but he isn't certain he wants to know exactly where in that tall, gleaming building Tony keeps a woodshed.

[heorte]

As Ellis had no magic to lose, the sentiment doesn't quite find purchase.

Yes, there are abilities a Warden has that have fallen silent. But Ellis knows how to move through this world without them. If he is unsettled by their absence, it is to a far lesser degree than a rifter mage who has had magic all their life.

"It'll dispatch the lesser creatures faster."

Ellie had a name for them. Ellis doesn't recall it.

The tape screetches into place. Ellis smooths a wayward edge with his thumb.

"But the ones with the hard plates on their face, I think it's better not to try unless you can hit hard enough to shatter the growth."

Is this a delicate query as to Strange's physical strength? Perhaps. Ellis is pragmatic; this assessment isn't meant as anything other than a way to safeguard Strange's well being.

[illithidnapped]

[It's an odd thing, admittedly. All of it, that is: the nature of defying nature— wherein great beasts capable of crushing bone between their jaws fall prey to things like simple silver. Powdered ironvine. Wooden sticks. Something of the Old World in it, Astarion always suspected. Tales of ancient spinsters stealing children, their efforts strangely thwarted by a lock of hair or a bit of straw; the changelings and their regal courts, bargaining with mortal souls just so that they'll come and dance.

Doesn't really hold up in a world where invitations are as simple as flicking a wrist.

Current invitation found by way of a single smile, pale fingers nesting in an open palm— before he strides in and knocks the door shut behind him with an agile heel.]

Good boy. [Such rumbling praise. Low and throaty and given as tribute in the process of wrapping his hand around the base of Leto's jaw— kissing him for a few beats, letting overlong fangs lead without cutting, precise as he is in their avaricious work. Neither hand letting go until he's had his fill of touch—

And sucked in air through his nose to shake off the budding urge to bite.]

Knew you'd get it right.

[Like no one else could being the part that goes unsaid.


Oh yes, but it's an odd thing, monstrous weakness. A trite thing, in all reality. A novel thing, with far too much stock put in it, besides. For there were times Astarion would kneel and watch within high-drawn halls as Cazador beguiled his devoted flock— the living and unliving alike— letting it sink in just what an inviolable landmark the man was: no monster hunter could've strolled in with whip or sword in hand and hoped to get within five feet of his master. They'd have been dead on approaching the gates, likely betrayed by their own kind. People flitted to Cazador Szarr, bled for him— did so much worse for him, all for the gravity of his stare to turn their way for a minute. Two. And even in suffering, Astarion hadn't been any different. Obedient and tuck-tailed at his heels, always trying to lap from those fingers like somehow it might save him (he knows better now): you can't squeeze love from hateful stone, no matter what it tells you.

No matter how its hands feel smoothing across your face.

And that knowledge rubs elbows with another, related truth:]

Anyway, no sunlight, like you said.

So much as a drop and I'll be ashes in minutes. Seconds. [He'd heard the screams without seeing them; makes it hard to gauge where howls stop and the echoes begin.] No running water— though the very nature of water means that it all qualifies, and thus burns like scorching acid to the touch. No wooden stakes to the heart [he adds, pulling the bloodied tool from his back pocket, waving it, and then pacing over to rest it on a nearby table.] you've seen firsthand how that one goes. And closing out on things already witnessed now, I can't enter a home without an invitation.

Mm. That last one was always tricky to figure out the reason for. My best guess is that it's a cosmic metaphor— you know, crossing the threshold between death and life. But the debate on that subject is eternally heated.

[And speaking of controversy:]

Most important is that the older and truer the vampire, the less all those rules apply.

Cazador could walk through water and barely feel the hiss of it; he would burn to death if left outside in full daylight— but you'd need to keep him in it for a good long while before that happens, and from what I've heard, you'd need to theoretically stake a vampire lord in his coffin while already weakened for it to have any sort of near-fatal effect.

In short: superstitions might work on me, but....

He's a terror.

....and I'm....

[Well.]

A different sort of terror.

job board

[favoriteanalyst]

So there's a lot. There's a lot going on here. It's not super unlike Thedas, but the people are so much more varied. Dragons that walk on two legs and talk like people? He's pretty sure he saw a wholeass centaur? Furry beings that are treated as any other citizen?

And that's still not the thing that's gotten Mobius beside himself the most. He has discovered, upon his arrival in this place, a simmering bit of energy under the surface, as though tucked beneath his skin. Having never been a mage, the idea that he's been bestowed with magic is. Something. Juggling somehow intrinsically knowing what he can do and also having no earthly idea what he's doing.

So, sidling up to someone who definitely arrived with them, who was definitely a qunari before, who also seems to be familiar with this place, don't mind if Mobius has a shimmer of faint blue around him. He's been experimenting. He peers at the request motioned to, rubbing his chin. "Fifty gold is an awful lot for just a little spring cleaning." Unless fifty gold is chump change around here. He doesn't know. Stark had basically infinite credit for them on little plastic bits. Money exchanged for goods and services have different meanings different places. "Why not be up front about what's getting 'cleaned out' if it's going to be actually dangerous? Maker knows you don't want to end up with some corpses in your basement if you can help it."

ii. chatty cathys

[heirring]

Wysteria has not been helpful about dredging the great humanoid serpent up off the footpath. She has also not expressed any dismay about the act of manhandling a corpse, although surely neither of these points has come as much of a surprise. Now though, amidst the imagined security of the denser foliage, Wysteria does do everyone the courtesy of nudging a few errant stones away from the slumped body with the toe of her very sensible field boot.

"Do you imagine it would it be best to ask after defenses in place, or merely whether it knows of a secret way to get where we would like to go?"

How can you speak to the dead, Mister Dickerson? What if the necessary response from the corpse is very long; does that at all affect the number of questions one may ask? To where will the soul depart? They'd talked, once, about a theory of planes and its relation to the Fade and to Thedas; is it like that? Might they travel there in the same way that it's possible to step into the Fade?

—Are questions best reserved for a different interrogation.

[laruetheday]

Clarisse glances up and just watches her, hiding a smile. Brainfreeze sucks.

"I mean, stuff like that you're not supposed to finish, really. It's just for the experience of trying it. And to take pictures of, I guess?" If you're into doing that. Clarisse is not, and her tone of voice makes that clear enough.