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.
"
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

[katabasis]

That should be natural too, the balance of a sword nearly as familiar to his palm as line or helm. But even here, some immeasurable distance removed from the Arlathan's influence, his reflexes are slow—clumsy—something instinctive cut out of him. Don't tell that to the sword he still wears at his hip, but there is a reason he now travels in possession of a hand crossbow more often than he doesn't. For all Gwenaëlle's efforts, it's not been easy to make a blade intimate with his arm again.

(Rutyer might best him these days.)

(That's not the point of the question John's posing, surely.)

There is some restless tenor to the cant of Flint's temple—not the through the nose exhale of having become weary of the subject entirely, merely impatient and maybe displeased with his own answers and the fact that they've produced so little specificity in return.

"The theory."

But they both know that isn't the same thing.

[hornswoggle]

"I should make myself more available to you," is a glancing remark, off the cuff. A minor acknowledgement of something to be done in the future; it might have followed after any morning or evening's discussion of how they might arrange their shared tasks.

It is not quite aligned with the conversation at hand, what John is circling and needling his way towards.

In fairness, John is thinking the whole of it through himself, as Flint gives up answers readily to each question posed.

"Do you imagine you'll rely on your newly acquired skill, when we must rote our quarry in that alley?"

There's no reason to pretend the evening's work is going to be resolved quietly.

[katabasis]

"I certainly intend to consider the benefits of its use," is not the same thing as being reliant on the thing. Nevermind that when spoken aloud, it sounds a little like an important insistence over semantics.

"It is a tool," he says, his ring studded hand at last moving back up across the edge of the table so as to fetch the cup back. "I expect we will both use whatever is at our disposal and the most rational to see that our efforts here don't go to waste."

There isn't much wine left in the bottom of the cup. He drains it directly.

[hornswoggle]

A passing, stubborn flex of expression meets the descriptor. The kind of thing that might preface a contradiction, though one doesn't materialize in the moment.

Telling, perhaps, of how John might identify the thing were he ever to speak openly of it beyond the moments they have been closed into conversation.

Here, within this attic, the semantics of the dream winding round them counterbalances the necessity of trying to pin down the language. It is isn't a tool would be more suited to any of their circling conversations held on the slanting deck of the Walrus or secure behind the door of his office or cushioned in the quiet of the road.

But this is a fleeting condition. It is a tool here, one that will be laid aside once they emerge from the Fade.

"Don't overextend," is all that comes of these considerations, as John leans to grasp for his crutch. A borrowed thing too; had Flint not said as much to John once, with the flat of his blade at John's shoulder?

[katabasis]

Flint fixes him with a look, only slightly crooked. It contains a knowing glint in the eye that notes that check—acknowledgement. Not chafing against the cautionary tenor, but whether it sinks past the ward of a tool is difficult to say as narrow chairs are scraped back from the little table. The bottle jostles on the rickety tabletop, and the stairs squeal loud enough to announce their descent that their host can't possibly miss their going.

Now here is something they've drilled to the point of near complacency: John Silver acting as hook and line; James Flint the ugly knife waiting to hack the catch's head clear the moment it's within reach.

They part ways in the uneven, scraggly footpath of an alley with a oily humored, "Good hunting." While the sun's yet to fail, there are doorways and overlapping seams enough between the various building squashed in against one another that even a man of Flint's dimensions may casually tuck himself somewhere where he may wait out of sight. He is not, strictly, an impatient man. Not so long as he has a way laid out ahead of him and confidence in the instruments seeing it done. He can bide his time perfectly well in that shaded corner, taking advantage of the long minutes required and the light to consult the notes produced from his coat pocket.

Magic here—some of it at least—requires words; certain as he is of his study, repetition has never failed him. Practiced, like—

listening for the tell tale stacatto of John's crutch.

[hornswoggle]

Here is a skill so well-worn that it comes to John as easy as drawing breath: talking a man round and round until there is no way forward by the one John might indicate.

(Men are greedy here too, regardless of any other quirk of the location.)

The sense of this man, their quarry, is that he is eager and cruel. Familiar, in that John might have met him in Nascere and found him unremarkable in his predictability. He wants coin and power in equal measure, has a map and a necklace that promise both. They are not on the sticky table among the dented coins and lackluster jewelry making up the night's pot, so woe to Serah Bertalan.

And more woe to him for the swiftness in which he twitched to the glint of gold in John's palm, the jangle of a weighted purse at his hip. If John were another man, maybe this night would have ended with his own throat cut in the alley. As it stands, John is half a step behind, convincingly winded through the labor of keeping up with the brisk pace Bertalan sets.

"I won't forget the kindness," John is saying, as his crutch taps along the stone. Makes a brief brace of the man's back, as he continues. "Of obliging me with a shortcut."

A drop of blood pressed to the center of the man's back, carrying an ill-wish with it. A spell that takes hold like black tar.

Two figures, turning away from the main road, into the shadow. It is such a common occurrence, even with John's missing leg and magnetic presence at the card table and steps of the public house, that it hardly warrants a second glance.

[katabasis]

The rhythmic thump of the crutch and the patter of Bertalan's more confident footfalls are bounce dully down the alley ahead of them—not loud or reverberating, just traveling around the jagged teeth of building edges and exposed brick corners and peeled plaster, tinkling over the shards of cracked roof tiles fallen long enough ago that they've been reduced to dusty fragments.

"Think nothing of it," Bertalan assures the hook in his cheek. "As I said, I'm going this direction myself."

(In a comedic twist, he had in fact suggested this shortcut himself; their quarry must make regular use of this place or ones like it to offset his losses at the tables—he hadn't been making a particularly good showing at dice when John had materialized.)

"And if I'm being honest," he lies poorly. "I try to take it upon myself to help people new to the city. No, don't deny it. It's written all over you. You're lucky you fell in with me and not some thieving lower city cutthroat."

There is a knife at the belt not far from where Bertalan has his thumb jauntily hooked. He has only begun to turn his knuckles idly in its direction when the shadows ahead of them abruptly resolve into solid pitch, viscous darkness blooming in the space ahead of them as ink might fill a vessel.

Bertalan stops, the shock of the thing catching him short. —And then the shock, literally, of something else entirely finds him as a lash of crackling, singing lighting bites out of the dark, snares his elbow, and wrenches him nearly off his feet as it drags him into the gloom.

[hornswoggle]

How strange it is, to find himself rendered redundant in such a moment.

There is a split second within that parting, where John watches as shadows close over Bertalan, and a knife-sharp smile cuts across his face. Blood flicks from his cut fingers, layering a slap of malignant intent over the curse John had already pressed into the fabric of his coat.

In the dark, it likely won't matter that Bertalan's skin has gone sallow, veins blackened as poison runs through them. He is dead already. All that's left is for Flint to seal that fate.

Still, cursed and poisoned, Bertalan grasps hold of his knife. A drowning man grasps for a rope, it is only to be expected. It only means he has something to hand when the lightening delivers him into pitch blackness. The flash-spark of the snare provides unreliable light, only briefly; once the whiplash of it winks out, it takes the distorted outline of Flint with it.

A first blind, desperate slash, then another, howling vitriol through each. Bertalan does not intend to die easily. Perhaps he has yet to consider that he won't slip away so easily.

At the edges of the pool of shadow, John grasps after some more reliable spell. Something that might be offered up without the need to see exactly what it is he is aiming towards.

[katabasis]

Inside the shadow is the deepest pitch, a moonless night without even the bare forgiving penetration of stars. The knife sweeps and slashes; Bertalan howls. On some successive hack of the knife, the blade glances off a shielding spell with a crackle of arcane energy. It's when he makes to cut his losses and break away, blood sizzling from adrenaline and poison both, that Flint's fist finds his collar. With a deadly, animal snarl like teeth finding a jugular, Flint rides him down.

They strike the uneven paving stones of the alley, head and shoulders unveiled out of the darkness at John's boot as Flint drives his knee—

somewhere invisible. In the small of Bertalan's back, maybe, grinding against his squirming spine as Flint's spare hand pins his thrashing knife wielding arm by the elbow.

(Antiva. The apothecary. A second Crow falling out of the sky. This is all so much less desperate than that had been thanks to the thrill of arcane power humming at the edge of his fingertips.)

"You work for an auction house in the upper city," is met with a 'Fuck you' that turns into a pained snarl as the heel of Flint's hand bears down harder over Bertalan's neck. "Tell us what we want to know, and you'll be on your way."

No he won't.

[hornswoggle]

"He has an amulet and map in his coat pocket," John offers, conversational. "We might help ourselves to that, to start with."

The power John carries in his bones and blood is changed here, yes. It feels different the way a story feels different in someone else's mouth, even if all the words are delivered in the same order. But some things remain unchanged.

John is as attuned to the shift and flare of power around him as ever. And Flint is blinding. He had always been so, yes, but like all other reorderings this is power brough to bear through a different filter, in conjunction with the familiarity of this dance they have done together so often. Looking at him now is equal parts utility and—

Necessity is almost the right word.

Still, it does some good to treat this man under Flint's knee as if he is hardly worthy of John's attention.

The prospect of losing his already ill-gotten gains inspires some further thrashing. John recognizes this too: a man caught in a trap, testing for any weak point in what holds him.

[katabasis]

With hands secure at elbow and neck, a knee riding through Bertalan's trashing, Flint glances up. It's little more than an instant of eye contact—a brief, sparking interval where he looks at John and can taste the shape of some powerful word thick on his tongue, and sense the adrenaline in his blood at the prospect of pronouncing it. Breathing heavy through his nostrils, a snorting bull, he crunches down on Bertalan's trapped elbow in an effort to disarm him from the knife in his fist.

The man grunts out a sound of protest. Twists. He has a free arm, and grasps blindly back after the heavy shape pinning him aleven as the fingers of his weapon hand pop open and the knife is scattered away.

"Share with us a way into the auction house and it's possible you might remain in possession of your things."

He can smell the crackle of singed clothes where the conjured electrified line had bit into Bertalan's arm, and the darkness cloaking their bottom halves still is so thick as to nearly constitute a weight. There is something gross and animal in this. There is something rational and easy in this.

[hornswoggle]

The shape of this thing in Flint's face catches John's breath. (The snag of it, hooked into his chest, searing as if he'd put his palm into open flame.) A second's worth of study is more than John needs to commit the expression he wears to memory.

It could be a distraction, if the matter at hand weren't so decidedly unsettled.

Blood beads at John's fingertips. He flicks the stray drops downwards. Blackened veins stand out, stark at Bertalan's throat and temples. John hasn't had to move at all.

"Best tell us of your own accord," John advises. "Or we'll have it from your corpse."

A threat, an assurance, delivered in such complete, chilly contrast to the force of the man at Bertalan's back.

[katabasis]

It rings oddly in the ear, that admonishment. What use is he as a corpse?, a knee jerk and instinctive sort of counter that fizzles against the long list (the literal stack of books) of possibilities that present themselves in this place. There is, in fact, plenty that might be gleaned from a body here.

(And good thing, given the rapid discoloration of Bertalan's flesh and the black stencil lines of his veins peeking through it like the most delicate onionskin paper.)

Still, it prompts an absent quirk of the temple and a flex of the fingers—

"I'll tell you!" Bertalan bucks up off the paving stones to sputter it. "I'll tell. Just let me up."

That prompts Flint to throw John a flat look. Fuck's sake. Somewhere in the dark, he must grind his knee sharper into a taut section of Bertalan's anatomy as the man hisses out a gasp. Wheezing out a garbled form of concession under the heel of Flint's hand:

"There's a basement storeroom. With a lift. It connects to an old chamber of the undercity. Used for smuggling."

Flint's pressing grip demands, "What chamber?"

"Can't draw a map with my nose, you fucker."

Which: fair.

[hornswoggle]

Fair, agrees the lift of John's chin.

However—

"Check that he has no other knife on his person," feels like a prudent caution.

If John is at all relieved to avoid the necessity of demonstrating how he might gather information from a dead man, it does not show on his face. (It is a weighty thing, isn't it? Animating a corpse?) He shifts only to kick the knife near to the wall, lower himself to retrieve it lest Bertalan is harboring some ideas about making use of it.

The strangled protest otherwise from Bertalan is worth ignoring; John had sat alongside him at the gaming table long enough to have measure of what his word is worth.

Silently, John plucks out the sketched layout they'd been granted. Keeps it folded in his hand, concealed. For comparison's sake, once Bertalan's work is done. (It occurs to him that they might have gone through all this trouble for next to nothing, if Bertalan doesn't have the information they need.)

[katabasis]

Prudent? Yes. Necessary to say aloud? Some low, wolfish flicker of amusement in the flex of Flint's brow—invisible to Bertalan—suggests he doesn't need to be told, but there go his hands shuffling their grip anyway. One remains pinned at the back of Bertalan's neck. Presumably, the other does the required work of feeling about his person once it disappears back into that inky, clinging darkness which still eclipses more than half their forms there in the alleyway. By the time he shifts to wrench the man over and force him into his back where he might continue his inspection, Flint has readopted that severe look of a man contemplating violence.

With a hiss of leather and metal, a second knife is produced from out of the darkness.

"The chamber," qualifies as impatient prompting.

"I don't know how to get there," is a mistake. Flint sets the edge of Bertalan's own blade to his throat. "—But I know someone who does. I could send them a message. Tell them we have something to deliver. Then you only have to follow them and you're there."

[hornswoggle]

"Are you an honest man, Bertalan?"

Is so obviously no that it becomes a joke for Flint's benefit, in pursuit of a reappearance of amusement in some minor flex of his expression.

"How do you intend to send this message? Pen and paper?"

—would be better.

A spell, once initiated, could go awry. Bertalan could speak anything into the air. A cut throat wouldn't wholly prevent a warning, only garble it.

[katabasis]

Maybe if his face weren't the primary thing in Bertalan's line of vision, a touch of humor might find it's way to it after all. But things being what they are, the blade nicks softly at goosefleshed throat. It bites just hard enough to bring dark blood beading to the surface.

"No," could be objection to the cut, so Bertalan hastens to clarify. "Oasis. In Little Calimshan. A coin is paid to the proprietor and he passes word. But it has to be me."

"I can see why you don't play cards." On account of what a terrible fucking liar he is.

(See, John. He can be funny too—)

Bertalan spits. The flecks that dot Flint's face are black, the recognition of which seems to stifle the walking dead man's mood considerably. Sallow already, he pales further despite the flex of the knife's edge.

[hornswoggle]

They've sharpened this skill between them, haven't they? Trading jokes in moments of relative peril.

(This would be more difficult, if not for the power Flint brings around to bear.)

"How much coin do you have?" John asks Flint, over Bertalan's head.

Most anyone can be bought. They'd paid a fair amount to the owner of that little attic room, what's a little more parceled out to another open palm?

"I won a fair amount, as our friend can tell you. Between us we might be able to dispense with the middleman."

The suggestion prompts another desperate twist towards freedom, thrashing hard enough that a man might be unseated if he weren't secure enough in his grip—

[katabasis]

Under the coat and and the dark, elaborately braided and embroidered shirt, the heavy belt with its array of accoutrements (spyglass and belt knife, the heavy loop for a crossbow he isn't presently in possession of) which survived the translation from Crossroads to Abeir-Toril, James Flint is sturdily built. Arguably more so in these last years, given the shocking luxury of time and a strange kind of security wherein he need only climb six flights of stairs multiple times a day rather than risk starving himself while pacing up and down the deck of a ship. In effect, he is not a man particularly well suited to being unseated by a little thrashing.

Then again, between the two of them, they've managed to give Bertalan a considerable amount of motivation to free himself. Either her is dead immediately thanks to the knife, or he is dead from whatever is rotting him from the inside while he allows himself to be pinned here, or maybe he is dead for having ratted on his place of employment. Any man might see the wisdom in taking a risk under such circumstances.

Indeed it takes real effort not to slash his throat while keeping astride him. If not for the fact that he has one more question to ask, Flint might—

With a sudden, percussive pronunciation, there is a knife in Bertaland's hand. Which makes very little sense. His hand hasn't moved. John had removed the first blade and Flint has his hand wrapped around the second. He is certain he disarmed him. But here is the knife in Bertaland's hand. It slashes with wild abandon. Flint rears back. Bertaland's fist and the knife in it drive into his side. The cloak of darkness collapses like a falling curtain and dissipates.

[hornswoggle]

The speed of it—

Flint's penchant for dark fabrics mask the extent of the wound, how rapidly or far blood may be spreading. (More ominous, the way the darkness Flint had wrought dissolves like so much insubstantial smoke.)

Instantly, immediately, even as he pitches forward to close the distance between himself and the two men on the ground, John is plucking up power. When he speaks, his voice hums with malice:

"Don't move."

And Bertalan's freezes, entire body turned to a rictus before he can give that blade a wrenching twist, before he can kick up and away from Flint's hold. And with Bertalan immobilized for the moment, John's attention turns to the wound Flint's been dealt.

[katabasis]

The shock of it—

Is numbing. Reduces the puncture to an unfeeling press of Bertalan's knuckles against his side through the layers of his clothes. How substantial had the length of the knife been? How had Bertalan manages to snatched it up into his hand? He should have had pinned his arm rather than rely on the threat of the blade at the man's neck to keep him amenable. Soon, he thinks, the pinch of the metal in his guts with puncture the insensate adrenaline and he will begin to feel it. Really feel it.

(That shroud of darkness had required a form of concentration he doesn't presently possess.)

Flint, still straddling their quarry, still with that knife against his exposed throat (more blood now; but a superficial cut), looks at the hand against his side and the plain handle of the knife jutting past the knuckles. It matches the one in his own fist exactly and there is something surreal and incorrect about that dual image.

Flint catches Bertalan's wrist and drives his thumb so hard into the sinew that he can feel the crunch of something threatening to give way. The hand is ripped away from the knife in his side. And—

Leaves the coat and the shirt intact behind it as there is no knife in his side. Only the specter of recent knuckles pressing, the illusory shape melting with all the speed that it had first manifested with.

[hornswoggle]

It's a good trick. (It is a trick John admires, knows by heart. Slight of hand is such an ingrained talent.) But the expression on John's face betrays no charity or pleasure in the deception at all.

"Have done with it," comes without hesitation. "I see no further use for him."

If it is vengeful, then so be it.

John is plucking already at some other spell, something meant to mend and patch. Yes, he's capable of healing, but it isn't his natural provenance. The deepening of those black veins in Bertalan's throat illustrate that very clearly.

Frozen and held as he is, all the man is permitted is the frenetic dart of his eyes. Still seeking a way out, an escape. Some crack in the vise grip John has applied to him.

cw: gore

[katabasis]

The man gone rigid under the knife is just a man, grasping and unintelligent and selfish. He is nothing and no one, and were they to leave him here in his back in this exceptionally narrow alley it is highly unlikely that he would find the motivation to cause them any further grief. Assuming he could even survive the thing that John Silver has pressed into his flesh.

He is also, in some sense surely, as manufactured as the planting of the knife had been. Even if they are moving in parallel to some other place as a debt to the crumbled Veil, these walls and paving stones and the flesh under the knife and the things that Flint can summon with a gesture of fingertips and a word of power are still just a reflection of what is more true somewhere else.

What harm is there in slashing a throat here?

(Is that even a question he asks himself?)

The spatter of Bertalan's blood on the dusty pavers is so very black.

cw: gore too

[hornswoggle]

They have more than they entered the alley with.

John puts the knife into a coat pocket.

"Let me see," is a query stemming so directly from that road in Nevarra. John remembers the clumsy sway of Flint's body, the dented cratering of his chest. Blood had soaked into the fabric then too, hard to see in the dark against dark fabric.

It was just a trick. A good one. John would like to be certain of it's limitations.

And to have the contents of Bertalan's pocket and purse, before they set back out to complete their chore.

[katabasis]

"It's nothing," is automatic, reflexive, as much a reassurance for himself as it is for anyone else. The frenetic, misplaced surge of adrenaline is still buzzing at the base of his skull and rattling around against his vertebrae.

For emphasis, Flint straightens halfway. He balances off the knife point, displaced now from the dead man's throat to the paving stone where blood is spreading and turning dust to grime. Grime to brackish mud. A hand pulls the fabric of his coat back and the dark weave of the shirt taut, both fully intact. There is no rent. There is no darker stain. Maybe he'll have a bruise in the morning from the force of Bertalan's knuckles, but—

"It's nothing." Repetition. More confident. And if he doesn't draw away from Bertalan's body, be will soon find himself sporting bloody trouser knees.