war table: strangers in the mirror.

[propulsion]

WHO: Closed to the gang
WHAT: Delving into the temple of Dirthamen in search of artifacts, Riftwatch finds that the temple demands more than they seek. But what else is new?
WHEN: Cloudreach
WHERE: Arlathan Forest, within the temple of Dirthamen, Elven God of Secrets and Knowledge
NOTES: OOC post.

You stand before it, a glow emanating from its smooth surface, a perfectly round sphere whose warmth bathes your face and hands in light. Around you are veiled faces in hoods, heads bowed in reverence, and a murmur of chanting echoes, overlapping, like the clashing of tides. Your hovered hands drift apart in a slow and elegant motion, and you can only faintly see it, the lines of magic you draw between your fingers, like faint golden cobwebs of shivering power.

They tremble between your fingers, they shiver, and they bend towards the orb. You must master it so it does not, in its wisdom and hunger, take from you what you're not willing to give, but you are well trained, you are beyond compare, and you will give only what you will.

The chanting rises, and the orb pulses with light. You focus, and the magic drawn between your fingers pulls away from it, arcs around in loops. It feels akin to reining a wild horse or mastering the lines affixed to the sails of a ship in a storm or pulling taut a bowstring.

And your control slips. Or you set something free. Either way, your hands come down on the surface of the orb, and it burns you alive.

...

The fading impression of this memory glimmers in your mind.

And nothing else. Where are you? What are you doing? Why do you wield this blade in your hand, or lay here with your bare throat offered to another's? You don't so much awake; you become aware of yourself, cold and aching and tired, and as you try to assess the situation and evaluate the motivations of the weary, filthy strangers that surround you, you wait for context to return, but it never does. You reach backwards for memory, for anything, encountering only the image of the glowing orb before you, and the way it had burned you with the things it knows when you touch it.

But there are more pressing matters to resolve.

After the initial confusion and chaos, all that is left to do is assess the place you are in, and decide what next to do. To escape, perhaps, or, some niggling part of you wonders, find the location of the glowing orb, which you know, deep down, is somewhere in this place.

The Temple of Dirthamen

Not that you know its name.

This place feels like an underground palace, sunken deep inside the earth, grand chambers that connect to one another with various passageways, tunnels, and staircases. Light sources come from your flaming torches or travel-sized lanterns hanging off your belt, or the occasional luminescence from green-glowing runic engravings on tiled walls, or the faint glow of a green miasma that lingers in hallways and chambers. There are walls set with elaborate mosaics, and great statues depicting twin figures, one of them cloaked in shadow and the other more detailed, and creatures such as ravens, always a pair, or the arching legs of a giant spider.

As intentionally built as it is, it is also half-wild. There are chambers that seemed carved directly into rock, and floors of rough natural stone. It is not, however, all intentional. You will find the frames of stone archways set directly into rough rock, or stairwells that lead nowhere but directly into cave wall, as if the earth had grown around it.

Despite this oddity, it is a beautiful and grand place, but clearly one steeped in ancient neglect, with flooded chambers, moss-riddled stairwells, crumbled stone, and the smell of rot and dust.

Traversing this place, however, is a challenge in and of itself, hostile to the strangers that crawl through its catacombs. Not only will you find whole pathways blocked with crumbled stone, or rooms that require you to swim through them to get to the other side, or a strangely angled corridor that forces you to climb up its craggy surface, the building itself is intentionally guarded against intruders in a myriad of passive ways. Traps trigger when a previously unnoticed puzzle is left ignored or incomplete, or doors refuse to open without the presence of a key in spite of there being no discernible lock. Some of these you may be able to solve, some will force you to double back.

You are also not alone. Out the corner of your eye, the presence of spirits dart in and out of the catacombs, and occasionally, you hear the ominous chittering sound of many-legged beasts that put you to mind of all those giant spider statues.

Some places you may encounter in your blind journey forwards:

THE QUEEN'S LAIR: You don't know how it happened, but the ground gives beneath you and whoever you are with, sliding without dignity down the abruptly steep angle of not-quite-smooth-enough rock. You land with a violent tumble upon surprisingly soft, spongy ground—fungus, moss, mud, deep puddles. As you look around, you see the large stone chamber you are in is lit with a sort of ambient bioluminescence of green miasma, showing up the sight of thick patches of cobweb strung between pillars, statues, hanging from loops from the ceiling. You see bundles blanketed in web, tellingly humanoid in size and general shape and, thankfully, perfectly still. The smell of dust and old decay in the air makes you hopeful that perhaps this place is more tomb than nest, until you see the way the giant cobwebs around you begin to sway. Looking up, through the miasma, the shadowy shapes of dog-sized spiders begin to pluck their way down. And you think you see, far above, the unmoving shape of a truly colossal spider resting high above. At least, you hope it's unmoving. You have two choices: take your chance in trying to scramble back up the steep incline you fell down, despite slippery rock, or brave the chamber and try to make your way in deeper in search of the gated archway on the other side that you will only know is there when you find it. Or the secret third choice of being eaten by spiders.

THE RED REVELRY: You and your companions, such as they are, find yourselves at the entryway of a great chamber. The walls glow with a faint blue-green light, only barely illuminating the wide open space. The open tiled ground is littered in debris, some of it crumbled rock, and some of it, ancient shattered skeleton, scraps of cloth, the evidence of many corpses that have long since decomposed to nothing but dry bone, dull jewelry, and the rotted remains of their clothing. Unpleasant, but unless you wish to yet again double back, the only way forward is through, and you do see another archway towards the back. However, the moment you step into the room, your mind fogs over. The room fills with golden light, laughter, music, and a swirling crowd of elven folk. You are in the midst of a revelry, and your heart feels light and joyous. One offers you a goblet of wine, another bids you to dance with them, another offers to share from a platter of fruit. The room is also surrounded by tall men and women of more serious demeanor, dressed in rich ornamental armor, dark cloaks, armed with curved blades, and you barely notice the sound of metal on leather as they all at once draw them. You do notice, however, as the screams begin, as blood begins to spatter, as the ring of guards begin to systematically cut down each reveler in arms reach. Now would be a good time to remember that none of this is real, but as you can't quite shake the immersive experience of a panicked grip to your arm or the visceral sensation of wet arterial spray spattering against your armor, it might be best to run for the next door before you find out otherwise.

Optional dice roll: A d20 roll of 16 or higher has you break the illusion, safely restoring the chamber around you to the dark dusty tomb full of unmoving skeletons. A result between 10 and 15 means you are still immersed in the illusion but you have your wits, and, with focus, are able to move through the figures as though they aren't there, but may still struggle. A result between 5 and 9 means you are too immersed, and the crush of the crowd is preventing you from running, and if a guard with a blade strikes you, you will be injured. You may need help. A result between 1 and 4: oh my god all of this is real and you're going to die unless someone drags you out of here. Otherwise, choose your own result, no dice no masters.

THE PATH OF THE SIGHTLESS: The broad hallway you approach is tiled with jade, with an atmospheric light coming down from the tall arched ceiling. Up ahead, the road is strange. The tiles are grey stone and then foot-square tiles of dull gold or similar metal. Upon stepping into the corridor, you will find that your vision is gone, cloaking you in darkness. To anyone else, standing outside of the corridor, they can see within it and you perfectly fine. What's more, any step you take that is not on one of the shining tiles, comes with a consequence: a psychic kind of torment that feels like a swarm of ravens invading your mind. They tear and claw, a physical sort of headache-like pain that becomes quickly overwhelming and paralysing, leaving you cold and shaking. What's more, this assault has things to say. Although you do not remember anything of yourself, these ravens seem to know. However, if you make it back onto a shining tile, or are close enough to one of the ends of the corridor to leave it, the torment will stop.

The idea here is that those with you will need to verbally guide your way through the corridor. If you are subjected to punishment for mis-stepping, the 'ravens' that flood your mind will pluck and claw at all the insecurities and fears you would have had if you remembered them. This is one way to get information about yourself, but as delivered through the bitchiest and harshest of critics. Your character will not be able to withstand it for long but will have difficulty hearing or moving, so feel free to assume they need extra assistance or manage to help themselves.

In general, feel free to find the kind of obstacles you might anticipate, such as ancient elven magic hopscotch, doors that only open if you pierce your hand on the knife-like protrusion where a handle should be, rooms full of wisps that taunt and mislead, platforms that require Big Jumps to get across or else you'll find yourself wet or on fire, Veilfire puzzle with tiles that ripple and shift, and so on.

There are also places of respite, ancient prayer rooms or barracks-like quarters, where you may discover the rations you have on you and get to know people who do not know themselves.

Strangers in the Mirror

Here is what you must bear in mind.

MEMORIES OF THE LIVING: Although you have no recollection of yourselves, recollection is not forever withheld. At any time, your mind may jerk towards an impression of something, clear as day. You may whole heartedly believe that you are recalling something of your own past, or it may be so incorrect that you are certain that this memory doesn't belong to you. These flashes come in moments of quiet, in looking upon the face of an ancient statue, or catching your reflection in a shining surface of water or metal or polished tile, or seeing the light in another's eyes.

If you happen to meet the person for whom these memories belong, you will know like a hook in your heart that this memory belongs to them. There is no way for you to give it the way you got it, for only the gods can parcel out memory and knowledge without the tools of language and writing, and so what you choose to do is yours to decide.

MEMORIES OF THE DEAD: There will be moments, likewise, when the memory of those long gone from this place invades your mind. However, they are not for you to know. At any point, you will find that you lose time, that a great stretch of blankness takes hold of your mind, and you come back to your own forgetful self in some other place, perhaps with entirely new company, performing some task you did not mean to begin: sweeping the floor, or kneeling before an altar, or sitting at a table prepared to eat a meal that is not there, or even once again about to slit the throat of a willing supplicant.

Use this mechanic to free up your character to pursue threads with others rather than only your home team. If you can also play out encountering someone in this fugue state or vice versa, in which they will be largely unresponsive, but seem to know their way around, completing their tasks, until they snap out of it.

And some general advice on your current affliction:

This is a fictional form of amnesia, so don't overthink it. Broadly, your character should instinctively know standard facts like what colour the sky is, even if they can't see any sky currently, or they may have an instinct towards certain skills they have practiced every day since childhood, like the yo-yo. However, knowledge of who they are, what their name is, where they've come from is completely lost on them.

More specific world facts like what the Chantry is, what a mage is, what a Ferelden is, you can be fast and loose with. If your character is deeply intimate with something like the Circle, they may roughly know of it in vague terms. Alternatively, if it's more fun if your mage doesn't even know that magic exists, then go with it.

Rifters from profoundly different worlds, like modern earth, can absolutely have a sense that they are in some kind of weird ancient world surrounded by old timey people. This is left to your discretion.

As far as what your character is like without their memories, again, this is up to you. They can be cluelessly the same, or exhibit hidden personality traits they ordinarily keep suppressed (or suppress ordinarily prominant instincts), or simply be fundamentally different without the burdens or highlights of their own lives to inform them. Are they friendlier? More vicious? Braver than usual? Less selfless, more? Whatever you like!

A Gift of Revelation

And then it ends.

Seemingly without ceremony, if you are far away from the thing that ends it. You feel a lurch and then it all comes flooding back: your name, your life, the mission, the people around you, the forward camp merely a few hours of travel outside the bounds of the temple you are in. You may be close enough to where you'd already started scouting before it all went foggy to make your way out easily, or you may be so immersed in the depths of the temple that your mission of trying to escape hasn't really changed, despite this context.

And yes, your sending crystal is still not working. Figures.

You still harbour the memories that you were given unbidden, even if they've lost their bright shine in the void, and you will still feel that sense of knowledge for whom they belong when you meet them next, if you are unable to work it out on your own.

Once out, the warmth of the Arlathan Forest greets you, and your crystal begins to flicker back to life once more. Truly, they don't pay you enough for this.

Comments

[altusimperius]

It's quite easy to hear Jayce's shout, and Benedict, glad for someone telling him what to do, flashes a quick nod and throws up another barrier. There's something terrifying about not being able to see what he's defending against, what has activated the other two into such desperate commands, but he does his best to attend to them.

"Go!" he calls to them, hoping that the spell will end at the room's threshold. It's no skin off his back to stay here and see them safely through: nothing is touching or hurting him.

[favoriteanalyst]

He wants to snap something at the broad fellow about how if he's going to use a weapon, he should use his great big damn hammer, but that might not be here, and it's not helpful when whatever ruse this is, whatever veil is over their eyes, has blinded him fully in the illusion.

He can see the chaos, is the part that confuses his senses. He knows exactly the kind of panic that is happening and why, and he can see the man with a memory tucked away fighting people who are there but aren't there.

A grab, then. For Jayce's arm, gloved hand tight around his wrist, and tugging. "Follow me," breathlessly, because he can hear it, too, just not as loudly. Focus. Focus, on the warmth in his chest and how this only seems real if you let it. "Follow me and stay close!" Not that he's planning on letting go. He'll make a beeline for the nearest exit, even as his heart hammers at the approach of red-robed guards. "Close your eyes if you have to."

[pathlit]

The hold on his wrist nearly sends his heart lurching up his throat, fearing it belongs to the guards just a few bodies away from them, but then Mobius directs and the resultant relief nearly spills like a dam broken. Casting a worried look over his shoulder, he sees the guard with the poleaxe bring the weapon down on the Benedict's barrier and another step forward to slash their sword at Benedict himself.

Jayce shouts in alarm -- almost stops despite the pressure around his wrist, guiding -- but what is see amongst the bloody chaos perplexes. No blood spills forth from Benedict. No stagger or collapse, no indication that the blade had touched him at all. Darkness flickers against the warm light, a spontaneous tear in the fabric of reality -- a glimpse of old stone and rust, and he staggers, then, as his mind tries to rectify the error--

--but he presses on, because the hold on his wrist is a reassurance. Eyes squeezed shut, he blindly follows Mobius through the shrieking, sobbing crowd, past the threshold into the next room when everything abruptly vanishes. The density in the air from panicked breaths and horrified sobbing, sweat and tears, spilt blood and wine; the clamber of shoes against stone and tearing fabric, crunching bone; the squelch of sharp objects in soft things; the terror--

It remains only in the rabbiting of his heart, the shallow rise and fall of his breaths. Eyes wide, grey and decay before him and, when he throws a look over his shoulder, behind him, too.

And the others, why -- there are only two of them.

[altusimperius]

For his part, Benedict doesn't seem to notice he's being attacked at all-- and when his concentration falters, the barrier breaks, which ought to swarm him with assailants. Instead, he stands perfectly still, his eyes going distant and oblivious to the pandemonium.

Your partner shushes you even though you're both trying hard not to giggle. The tiny wisp of an elf, an apron over their robes, gives you both a look from the kitchen counter. You know their name to be Aumanis, and you are pleased that they have not had any big accident in their turn cooking lunch this time.

"And why exactly do you want all the drippings?"

"For," starts your partner in crime, and you know his name to be Casey, who looks at you for a moment before looking back at the elf, "making extra candles."

"Candles," Aumanis says flatly.

"You know how stingy Portia is about the candles," you say. That isn't a lie. "And it isn't ideal, but you can make candles out of leftover grease." Also not a lie.

"And what is it you actually want it for?"

Casey puts a hand in front of his face, cracking. You roll your eyes and lean in. "Let me put it this way: if you don't know, you can't possibly get in trouble for it."

The corner of Aumanis's mouth quirks up, with a little shake to their shoulders. "I am, of course, only following orders." Skitters away to do as told.

A Templar behind you standing guard at the door (and she is large and imposing and she goes by Bea) gives a huff of a sigh. "I don't know what you're up to, but whatever it's going to be, I'm going to tell her."

"No you're not." You wave a hand at her. "We're gonna coat Deacon's boots while he's asleep and watch him slide down the hall when we rouse him. You want to see him fall on his too-righteous ass, too."

Bea stares you down. But doesn't disagree. "She's going to find out, and if she asks me, I'm throwing you both under the carriage."

When he comes back to himself, it's to give a little start, blinking and turning to follow the pair into the next room. He casts a strange look at Mobius.

[favoriteanalyst]

It all simply...vanishes without a trace when the threshold is crossed. All of the panicked people, the dying, the gurgling and bleeding. The red red guards and their glistening blades. The lights. Gone as though it never existed.

There are old and rotted bits of fabric and brittle bones. So it existed. It existed once upon a time, a long time ago.

"Just keep breathing." He pats the strong arm of his companion, trying to do the same himself. "Just some sort of...illusion magic. Or spirits." Both? Neither? "Reliving the same moment again and again and wrapping others up in it."

The other is standing very still, right up until he isn't, jerked as though woken by some dream.

He purses his lips. Considers ignoring the look entirely to focus on more important things. And yet the strangeness and panic and decay of this experience has not done well for his patience. "What?" As calmly as he can ask it.

[pathlit]

Swallowing, he nods and focuses on his breath. Having someone else calmly provide direction, projected or otherwise, grants respite from the haunted fuckery they've just experienced. Hesitantly, he lifts his fingers to his bicep, wincing briefly with the confirmation that the wound is real; the ache of the laceration flaring anew at the touch, the fresh blood on his fingertips. All in all, a mild wound not worth immediately fretting over, but still bizarre.

And yet, another glance at the third fellow confirms no apparent grievous injury.

Looking between the other two men, he tentatively asks, "Did... Did you see something? Like-- Like a vision."

[altusimperius]

"Just now," says the younger, nodding absently to the one with the mustache as he drifts toward them both.
"We're going to coat Deacon's boots," he repeats to him, as if hoping for clarity; it was in this person's voice, perhaps he'll know what it means. "With drippings. And watch him slide down the hall."

[favoriteanalyst]

They'll have to bandage that. Surely one of them must be carrying basic supplies like that. Surely. But his gaze doesn't leave the young man. Something remembered? Something from him.

Not-Clyde--Obie--had given him much the same unsettling look.

He shakes his head. None of that means anything to him. Not the name, not the scenario, though it does sound funny. But that's when his gaze settles back on the large fellow.

"You had a magic hammer. Infiltrating a warehouse, I think, where drugs were being made, corrupting your city. You did quite a bit of damage with it; it was impressive." And then, his gaze is drawn down to his hands (useless damned things) that flex in their gloves scuffed from dust and dirt and grime. Not unsullied white. "I don't think I'd be that powerful. I knew it wasn't mine. But when I saw you--" A sharp exhale. "Why are we remembering things for everyone else and not ourselves?"

[pathlit]

The absurdity of the quotation yanks an amused exhale out of him. Between the three of them, a spectrum of enthrallment resulting in a gash and the echoes of past mischief. Memories upon memories, and none of their own.

As to the admission, what can he do but shrug helplessly, a half-smile, half-grimace on his face? None of it sounds familiar -- but perhaps that's a given as the mischief had garnered no recognition. It doesn't sound good, either -- did quite a bit of damage with it, so he says.

"You're," he starts at the youngest, lips shifting as he decides on the words, "a mage, right? You worked magic-- and it was a great help, thank you," added genuinely as he recalls the shields, the sound of metal striking against it. "Can you... tell what's going on here?"

[altusimperius]

It's a reasonable enough conclusion to draw, and he nods when asked: yes, he must be a mage, if he created magical barriers. He nods, looking at his own hands, at the shard glittering in one of them, though he hasn't the faintest idea of what that means, what to do with it-- just that there are others who have them too.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I can't. I'm... I'm not even quite certain how I got here." Here as in literally the room where they stand, before which he has only the faintest idea that he was cognizant at all and wandering pointlessly about.

[favoriteanalyst]

"Maybe if we find that orb..." The one they all seem to remember. The one with the bright, enchanting glow. The one that burned, and thus maybe burned away all their memories, shuffled them around. "That's all I've got in terms of ideas. There's some kind of magic at play, and maybe we all did this willingly, but it's all gone pretty damn wrong."

He looks back to the seemingly enchanted room. "I wonder if we aren't the first ones to be stuck here."

[pathlit]

His attention wanders to Mobius, then around the room they currently occupy, nodding. "We find the orb, we find our answers."

A beat, glancing askance briefly, before he adds, "Maybe. But it's our only lead." Ignoring the urge to touch his arm again, like the universal urge to disturb a scab, he looks at Mobius again and softly says, "Thanks."

For the save.

[altusimperius]

"But how," comes the uneasy response, from someone who seems willing enough to act in moments of peril, but then recedes again into a ball of uncertainty, waiting for instruction.

"This place is a maze."