MOD PLOT ↠ STILL RISING, STILL DEVOURING

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: Sea beasts!
WHEN: Justinian 9:49 (now)
WHERE: Ostwick, Kirkwall, and the Amaranthine Ocean
NOTES: OOC post here! CW for some cruelty/violence toward mythological monsters/animals and also one ferryman. Use other CWs in your subject lines as appropriate.

I. INTERVENTION AT OSTWICK

The earliest reports from Riftwatch's contacts among the coastal Free Marches arrive in a confusing tangle in hours before dawn. The Venatori have taken Hercinia—no, a dragon has only destroyed a little piece of it—no, wait, yes, a dragon, but a dragon from the sea—wait, no, maybe pirates? Scratch that. Sea dragon, Venatori involvement, and ships and something massive moving west into the Waking Sea.

That is all the information Riftwatch has when it begins loading hastily woken people and griffons onto ships at sunrise to set out to intercept whatever it is, doing whatever it is trying to do, before it does more of it wherever it is trying to go.

Fortunately/unfortunately, those questions quickly answer themselves.

Scouts on griffons flying ahead of Riftwatch's ships spot the disturbance in Ostwick's harbor before they reach the city. Churning water, crunching wood, shouts of terror, and most of all an enormous shell, encrusted with stripes of spiky red crystals, housing something with an over-abundance of mandibles that it's using to funnel whatever it can reach toward its even more overabundant spiky teeth and a long spike of a tail lashing dangerously behind it. The huge tentacles of a giant octopus, encrusted with red barnacles, flatten boats with a slap, and sweep the length of the quay to fling soldiers and fleeing citizens into the water. The sinuous length of a sea serpent darts in and out of sight, its writhing revealing patches of scales replaced by crystalline growth. Occasionally it rises out of the water to snatch someone off a deck with a snap of triangular jaws, or twines around the center of a small merchant vessel and squeezes, dragging it down beneath the water with a tremendous creak of wood strained to breaking and the screams of its crew, all quickly silenced.

These enormous beasts are the largest and most obvious problem, but not the only one. Outside the harbor are a half-dozen small Tevinter vessels, Venatori colors unfurled, keeping their distance from the scorpion-crab's spiky tail, and something else red and silver and massive lurking beneath the surface of the deeper water nearby. On the decks of several are pillared structures that look like lantern posts but are topped by large crystals of red lyrium. Between each set of these beacons are stood two figures: a mage with a lyrium-crusted staff and a strange helm of red lyrium, chains of the crystal strung like armor down chest and arms, and a Templar in an identical helm, armor studded with lyrium and cut to accommodate the crystals that grow out of arms and shoulders. If someone chances a close inspection, their eyes glow red and lips seem to move in unison.

Ostwick is putting up the best defense it could muster with little warning, but its first order of business was evacuating the naval ships in the harbor before any more could be destroyed and only after first scattering to safety are a few of those undermanned vessels circling back around behind the harbor-devouring monsters and engaging the Venatori ships. The city guard on ground evacuate civilians and those on the walls of the inner city send forth volleys of arrows that bounce uselessly off of scales and shells.

As soon as Riftwatch's ships arrive they will find themselves bombarded by small missiles too—a veritable school of flying fish, flinging themselves out of the water and over the deck of the Walrus and the Fancy. With razor-sharp wingfins and needle teeth, they are unpleasant to have at face-height in any circumstance, and like their larger comrades these too are encrusted with red lyrium, the crystals adding weight and cutting edge and the threat of madness and blight to any blow they manage to strike—so it would be very wise to avoid that.

The teeming waters become even more cramped and chaotic when the beast hiding beneath the water near the Tevinter ships, its nose terminating in a sword-like spike meters long, appears from the depths to skewer a small naval vessel attempting to make an escape. The spear punches clean through the ship's hull but becomes stuck, and the ship is tossed from side to side, slapped against the water, flinging debris and passengers and shockwaves as the beast thrashes wildly in an attempt to remove it, its plight blocking the harbor mouth.

Riftwatch's captains keep their ships back at a relatively safe distance just outside the harbor, launching all the griffon-riders they've been able to muster on short notice, and bringing to bear what ranged attacks they have: large deck-mounted crossbows require aiming and winding, and though their heavy bolts can punch through armor and even decking, the time it takes to prepare each shot makes catching the fast-moving sea monsters difficult. Flinging rocks and alchemical grenades in the stone-throwers is faster, but less accurate. Most of the work will fall to those on griffon-back or brave enough to take a launch through the chaos to the quayside or what remains of the piers, to attack the beasts from above or in even closer quarters.

For a time the battle is largely contained to the harbor, the sea monsters seemingly driven to do as much damage in the harbor as they can, dragging people into the water, the scorpion crab's barbed missiles punching holes in waterside buildings, and thrashing tentacles fling wreckage onto shore. Some of the trapped ships fight on, and welcome aid from Riftwatch reinforcements ferried by griffon to help them escape or evacuate their crews to shore.

When the swordnose and its wooden nose ring stop blocking the harbor a small pack of ships make a run for it, and at the same time Ostwick's navy attempts to re-engage, the battle spilling out into the sea before the harbor. The sea snake appears suddenly alongside the Walrus, water pouring from it as its angular head rises over the ship's middle and darts across, flinging its scaly bulk amidships. It lands with a thunderous crash and slides through the trough it has made in the rail, scales gliding and crystals scraping the hull as it coils around the vessel, preparing to crush and it drag it down into the deep unless Riftwatch hacks and magically blasts it free in time.

As Riftwatch finds ways to put down the great beasts, Ostwick succeeds in sinking two of the Venatori ships and the others flee east back into the Amaranthine. The sword-nosed monster flees after them, once again stuck to a boat, this time via a harpoon lodged in its side dragging along the small craft on the other end of the line like a flag signaling its position. Riftwatch at least briefly gives chase, and after a few miles it becomes clear that this is not blind escape—the beast is traveling constantly in a straight line, as if drawn by a magnet. Scouting ahead along that trajectory, Riftwatch will discover that there is indeed somewhere in particular it is heading.

II. CHAOS IN KIRKWALL

Meanwhile, in Kirkwall–

It is Gallows ferry rush hour, the time of day when people who live in the city or who just want to get out of the fortress for dinner pack onto the ferry between their little island and the Kirkwall docks. The ferry only has so many seats, and the day's ferryman–Murph–is the energetic and impatient variety of salty old man who waits for no one, so some may have just missed it and be left standing on the Gallows' docks, watching twenty minutes of their lives row away.

But it turns out they're the lucky ones, because when the dinghy and its passengers are midway to shore, there's a swell of water, and for a moment the odd absence of waves, before a massive reptilian head breaks the surface and smoothly snatches Murph off his perch at the back of the ferry and into its maw.

The enormous shell attached to the head follows close behind it, dragging the ferry along on its crest as the creature–an enormous snapping turtle, more or less, with a long neck and spots of red lyrium on its already-jagged shell–proceeds on its way, slowly emerging from the water as the rocky shallows require it to trade swimming for lumbering. For minute it's too busy eating (sorry Murph) to notice or care about the boat and passengers it is dragging along with it toward the city, but once it does it stops where it is and begins turning its serpentine head back in their direction, snapping the sharp ridges of its mouth at anything it can reach.

So that's the situation. Some number of Riftwatchers are trapped on the shell of a giant red lyrium snapping turtle that is only momentarily distracted from its march toward the docks, left with the choices of climbing onto its shell (while carefully avoiding the lyrium) or leaping into the water behind it and hoping it doesn't turn back in their direction. Others, watching back at the Gallows, may have the presence of mind to run for the eyrie, whether they're very good with the griffons or not, or go for one of the emergency boats kept behind the fortress. Those ashore have other options: the Kirkwall guard is quick to organize a defense, and the turtle is coming their way sooner or later, with or without ferry's worth of Riftwatch members stuck on its back.

In the midst of the chaos, it will take a keen eye or two to notice a two figures on the deck of an unmarked ship in the harbor whose ceaseless murmurs and quick, closely-held gestures give away their involvement. It is, specifically, spellcasting that picks up in speed and intensity whenever the turtle seems to be reconsidering the wisdom of its march toward the shore. Someone will have to do something about them, too.

III. COMMOTION IN THE OCEAN

Following the heading of the escaping sword-nosed monster leads Riftwatch to a strange sight. A mile or two off the end of a small chain of uninhabited islands is anchored a flotilla of loosely-connected ships arranged in a semi-circle. They fly no flags but it won't be difficult to guess at their allegiance—red lyrium beacons float on buoys, and on the deck of one ship is a pair wearing red lyrium helms and wielding red lyrium staves, seemingly calling the fleeing sea monster home.

Riftwatch's assault will take them by surprise. The place is guarded and manned by mages and Templars, several of them lyrium-augmented and capable of inhuman strength and stamina, the crystals growing from their bodies serving as both armor and weapon. Most of its denizens are at least somewhat combat trained, and nearly all will put up some sort of fight. But the majority don't seem to be soldiers and it isn't a big facility. It won't take nearly as long to kill or subdue its workforce as it did the monsters that it now appears may be their creations, or at least under their control.

At first, the semi-circle configuration of the vessels appears random, arranged around nothing but an unremarkable patch of ocean. But every so often something causes the surface at that point to roil, and at one point during the battle a wave races out from that point to rock the ships on their anchor chains sharply enough to send the unwary toppling to the deck before settling again.

When the assault ends, investigation of the site will find a curious combination of equipment, some appropriate to a fishing village, some familiar from Venatori research operations, and some strange apparatus of metal and glass and tubing. Cleansing runes inscribed into the exteriors of most of the ships, save one that appears to've been a barracks, bunks reinforced to accommodate the weight of bones studded by crystal growths, storage chest including a stock of red lyrium potions. Other chests contain armor and equipment corrupted with the same.

Eventually, someone will spot a strange vertical length of pipe near the rail on the central ship, at the point nearest the center of the semi-circle. One end travels through the deck, the other up to head height for a man, an angle just before the open top end inviting passers to step up and try looking in. Doing so will find it is a primitive periscope, its other end reflecting a scene beneath the water: a hill of dark rock broken open and glowing with magma along its fissures, flows of lava bubbling up from the spout and spreading slowly outward, occasionally heaved upwards with greater force. At first it may seem a trick of the light, dim and shifting with the waves above, but soon they will realize it is not just the orange-red of molten rock heated to boiling, but a brighter, deeper shade they've seen everywhere today: the red of tainted lyrium.

The good news is that this discovery means Riftwatch has minimal worries about tainting an untainted environment by burning, sinking, and otherwise dismantling the floating base and its red lyrium adornments. It's still a slow, careful undertaking, to avoid destroying any useful information or exposing anyone to the red lyrium in the process. Examining notes and underwater evidence will confirm that the Venatori were luring sea monsters to the volcano by drawing them in with food or distress calls, then casting spells to paralyze them. Wounding the animals while keeping them in close proximity to the underwater magma resulted in the wounds healing over with red lyrium crystals.

In the meantime those with any skill in cartography do their best to chart the location of the facility so they'll be able to find the volcano again without any sign of it above the water. And Riftwatch also takes time to check out each of the nearby islands—unpopulated and unaffected by the lyrium so far, on investigation, with some abandoned campsites that indicate the Venatori were using them to replenish food and fresh water for the operation but no lingering dangers. Once that's confirmed, Riftwatch is able to set up a camp on the beach of one of the islands and give anyone who needs it a break from sleeping on the ships for the remaining days of their demolition project.

Comments

[portalling]

“I’d heard about that, yeah.” It was hard to live in the skeleton of the Gallows, with all its bloody history, without hearing about what had happened with Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard. Emotionally distanced from all these topics and absorbed in his rummaging through the paperwork, Strange doesn’t catch that thin edge of Mobius’ irritation; the other man has done too good a job of pressing it down, swallowing it.

Something didn’t sound quite right about what he’d mentioned, though. Some word standing out, prickling at the edge of Strange’s awareness. What was it?

Beat. Recordscratch. Wait.

“Back to regular lyrium? I thought that was for mages and smiths.”

[favoriteanalyst]

"Hm?" Of all the points made, Mobius didn't feel like that was the one that would get any traction. He's vaguely familiar now with the concept of a record scratch, even if he still doesn't understand the vinyl records the idea comes from. But he can almost hear it happen in the way Strange suddenly locks on that topic, like he's only just realized something.

Oh, shit. He's only just realized something.

"It's not just for them," Mobius says with a small grimace. "Not only."

That Templars take lyrium is one of those secrets of the Chantry that it also feels like everyone already knows or has surmised, at least since the war. When you suddenly have an army of addicts roaming freely without a regular supply sent in. Or the people that know the (un)lucky Templars that keep living through the erosion of their higher senses. Plenty in Riftwatch already know, probably because of having to deal with Templars in their midst.

But it is a secret, and it's not something a Rifter would simply just happen upon unless they stumbled on the topic. Like this.

"Don't start playing around with putting lyrium inside you in a non-mage way."

[portalling]

It’s startling, realising that even after all his quarantine-imposed obsessive research, that Stephen Strange can still stumble into a blank spot on the map.

This was not covered by the conventional public texts. He’s read An Alchemical Primer of Metallurgy, even though it wasn’t particularly up his alley; it was banned by the Chantry and it still hadn’t touched on this particular application. Instead, he has read about lyrium’s use in glowstones. Dwarven weaponry and armour. Harrowing rituals. Mages using it to enter the Fade directly; he had read up on that in particular, for obvious reasons, as well as the lyrium potions to push one’s magical limits, in the event he ever needed to do the same.

But he hadn’t read about templars. And for all his current allegiances, Mobius was a templar. (Is?)

“I thought direct contact meant— nausea, skin blisters, dementia.” He had noted all of these as potential medical symptoms, things to note in case someone ever walked into his infirmary with the symptoms of lyrium exposure; plus, something to keep in mind so he didn’t just approach a raw vein directly himself either.

“How do you put it inside you? And the effects aren’t like this?” Another flip of the hand, the Venatori base. He’s put down the papers, though, and now Mobius has his full attention.

[favoriteanalyst]

"You've encountered draughts of lyrium," surely, "and you can't imagine getting some of the stuff in you without touching it directly?"

Which, notably, doesn't answer the question.

"If the effects of regular lyrium consumption were like this," with a similar gesture as Strange, "we'd have a hell of a lot more problems. No, you can more or less safely intake it if you've been initiated, and if you know how. Riftwatch keeps a store, for experiments, enchantments, mages, Templars. It's less dangerous if you know how to handle it and aren't being stupid about where you're putting it. Wouldn't want to be in the dwarven mines, that's for sure. They've got a mighty resistance, but not an immunity to the ores, as I understand it."

Strange being Strange, he's going to want every single scrap of detail about what Mobius isn't saying. Knowledge is power, Mobius certainly know, but it's also dangerous for the same reason. "We don't exactly advertise. The Chantry likes to keep it a tidy little secret, for several reasons."

[portalling]

They’re painting in the edges of the map, sketching in the outlines of it, but it’s not the full picture yet — and Strange can tell that there’s a few pieces missing. He’s got that look on his face he gets when he’s been presented with a puzzle. (Oscar had had that look in Arlathan, squinting thoughtfully at the mechanisms and barriers throughout the ancient temple.)

“But it’s not as a draught, is it?” Strange says. And then tries again: “What effect does it have?”

His curiosity is scalpel-sharp, cleaving down to the bone. He’s always curious.

[favoriteanalyst]

"You've seen what effect it has." Has experienced it first hand, in the depths of not-New York.

But that's not what Strange means. Mobius stares at him across the table. Calculating.

"We put together what's called a philter. It's a set of instruments used to, in essence, process lyrium and deliver it into ourselves. The Chantry will tell you that we're granted our abilities through faith and the divine mercy of the Maker." Mobius spreads his hands. "I won't deny that I believe my faith gives me strength. I believe, and that belief translates to a certain point. But it's lyrium that does the heavy lifting. Where mages use it to enhance their connection to the Fade, we use it to sever that connection. To make the real real. It's not usually as dramatic as I've shown you, but it's in essence what we do."

And he recognizes that, for someone who was a healer, that's still not exactly what Strange is asking when he asks about the effect.

"You want to know what it does physically. You want to know how someone can take lyrium regularly without suffering the debilitating, horrible side effects you've read about."

[portalling]

“Exactly,” Strange says. His gaze slides sideways, checks the exits to this room. The rest of their party are in other rooms of the warren, combing over their own finds. They do have some privacy for this conversation, at least, in case that matters. And Strange is at least distantly aware that he is needling one of his very closest friends; purposefully pushing those buttons for information.

But he does want to know. He needs to fill in this map.

“As your friend,” this is the first time he’s said that aloud, “I wouldn’t want to pry if it makes you uncomfortable. But as one of Riftwatch’s only physicians, I need to know these things. This sounds like usage of a controlled substance if ever there was one.”

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius coughs out a scoff of a laugh. "You're not wrong in that assessment."

He sees that look. And there's a gravity, a solid weight when Strange calls him friend. The sorcerer turned baby mage gets it, at least. It's part personal information, part things that just aren't talked about. Mobius and Barrow had become fast friends over their shared history and understanding. With others, it simply isn't done.

The man can be reckless and arrogant. But he is a friend. Given the depth of their conversations thusfar, he's certainly a trusted friend. Doesn't judge--too harshly, anyway.

Still, it needs to be impressed upon him. "Stephen." Mobius keeps his voice low but even, using the man's given name for the first time. "Whatever I tell you, it stays between us. Use the knowledge for medicinal purposes if it comes up, but don't share it. Not unless absolutely necessary. Don't treat any Templars current or former any differently." His fingers curl around the edge of the little table. "Don't treat me any differently."

[portalling]

There is that persistent aggravating urge to crack a terrible joke, one which might get him punched, but thankfully the use of his name stops him in his tracks. The weight of it sinks in.

A beat. A flicker of a smile.

“Alright,” Stephen says. “Only insofar as it’s relevant to their treatment or capabilities, if it becomes relevant.”

It’s a deal, a truce, an agreement.

[favoriteanalyst]

Okay. Alright. A nod.

"It's the same as with mages, really. You just drink the stuff. I'm not gonna show you how it's done." Is the first thing he's going to make clear. "The steps taken with a philter. The whole kind of ritual of a process. If I...am in need of assistance, I'll talk you through the steps, otherwise that's just gonna be a thing between me and the rest of the Order and nobody else." Just so that's settled. He's always done it in private since he left. He'll retain that modicum of privacy now.

A breath. That's the easy part. Now comes the hard part.

"One of the Chantry's dirty little secrets is lyrium is how they control their holy army. Because you need to keep taking it to keep being able to do what you do. And the Chantry's got control of a lot of the lyrium trade. It's an addiction." Mobius looks away, finding the word distasteful, hard to admit. Even if it's absolutely true and absolutely appropriate to say. "Hear the red stuff's even worse. But for the most part, you take it every day. I usually go every two or three days myself. When I left, I only had so much on me. Had to find my own connections and ways of getting what I needed. You start slipping into withdrawal after about a week. I've done it a couple times, and I don't ever want to do that again, so I learned to try and space out my doses to make what I had last. I don't need to anymore right now, but...you never know."

Mobius is faithful to the religion, but he's never been shy about disparaging the organization. A lot of faults there. Just people being people at the end of the day.

"It isn't like I don't feel the need, every day, just that I can ignore it for a bit. Withdrawal, it's awful. You can get through to the other side, I hear, and kick the habit, but you're taking a risk. Just as likely you'll just get worse and worse and go crazy and die. Or, anyway, go crazy and prefer death to what you're going through. I don't ever plan on stopping, personally. It's been decades. If I stopped now...I don't know what that would even accomplish for me."

He'll lose his mind one way or another. He just prefers that he gets to choose which way.

[portalling]

Stephen has drifted away from the tables of supplies; arms crossed, now standing with a crinkled brow as he watches Mobius and processes all of that information.

“A chemical dependency in every single Templar?” he says. Which 1) is alarming, from a medical standpoint, but 2) explains a few things. Maybe he should’ve questioned Mobius’ capabilities more, stopped to wonder how the hell he accomplished it without being a mage — but, coming from his own world, he’d assumed that sometimes people just do extraordinary stuff. That’s how the universe works. Maybe the templar abilities just came from training.

Not so.

“So that’s how you have your powers. Is it a tradeoff? If you go into withdrawal and kick the habit, then you can’t do your magic nullification thing anymore? Are there any other side-effects— enhanced strength, stamina, anything?”

There’s a constant push-and-pull between Stephen’s identities as sorcerer or doctor; right now, he’s verging back into the latter, immediately wanting to know all the effects of the addictive magical compound. If he’s going to look after the health of these people, he has to know these things.

[favoriteanalyst]

It almost feels like scrutiny. If Stephen were in any way his superior, he might feel like a proper Templar again, outranked and getting a dressing down. But he's not, and it's just thinking, just contemplation, just digging the way that Mobius likes to dig, with questions and questions and a penetrating stare.

Not so great a feeling when the shoe's on the other foot, huh?

"It's how we work," he says, his version of an affirmative, with a little one shoulder shrug. "Believe when I say there's plenty of training, but you're right, when we kick the habit, we kick the powers, too. That part's not some high holy ordained special bit of Maker blessing for each and every one of us. When you take it, you feel...energized. Like you can take on the world. Puts hair on your chest and makes a man out of a boy. Not," quickly, "literally. I'm not saying you suddenly make stupid decisions and decide to fight a dragon, but it wouldn't be wrong to suggest that it makes you feel like you could fight a dragon. Especially with your brothers and sisters beside you. You aren't afraid. Without it..."

Stephen's a healer. Or he was. Or he wants to be again. He's not wrong; he ought to know symptoms when he sees them. It's just...it doesn't get talked about on the outside. He drums fingers on the tabletop and moves to sit on a creaky stool. Glances at the door again, glad that it seems like they aren't going to be interrupted.

"It always starts with the hunger. But you get tired. You get thirsty, and water just won't do. Head pounds. You get cold. Usually it's in the hands," he adds, raising his with a humorless chuckle, "but I've felt it spread like a chill you get when you're ill. You...forget." And that's just the damned worst part. Forget if he takes it, forget if he doesn't. He's going to lose himself and everything he's learned either way. "Longer, and you just start losing it. You get paranoid, twitchy, confused. Everything's out to get you; you can't trust what you see in case it's not really there. Can't tell when you're asleep and dreaming or awake and hallucinating. Can't tell friend from foe. It's...wretched."

[portalling]

“Okay. Well, that sounds hellish.” It makes sense that Mobius wouldn’t want to actively court those symptoms, in that case. While the templar takes a seat, Stephen leans his weight back against one of the heavier tables here. He wishes he had a notepad and a pen; wishes he could still write at all; wants to have this on record.

He’s already decided that when they get back to the Gallows, he’s going to get this written down so it’s in the infirmary for reference. Won’t file it under lyrium, to respect his promise to Mobius to be discreet about it; perhaps it’ll just be labelled as withdrawal symptoms.

He’s trying to walk this delicate line: how to speak as both a doctor and a friend, trying not to sound too brusque and cold and professional. He keeps his voice gentle and as sympathetic as he can make it, even as his thoughts are already spinning and filing away all of this information on the pathophysiology. So lyrium was a stimulant, certainly, which tracked with how mages could use it to augment their own powers.

“Is it possible to overdose, taking too much at a single time? If someone is disordered, can’t remember how much they’ve already taken, and then takes too much.”

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius blinks, brow furrowed. "I suppose it's possible. You can overdose on anything, even water. But if there's some in the system, they probably won't really forget that they've taken it. The stabilizing effects start pretty immediately. It might not feel like enough, but it'll be enough to stave off the worst of the worst, and then you can go from there. The philters also only allow you to do so much at a time. The time and effort it would take to just keep making it the way you need to isn't worth getting more out of it. Might just be something that generally gets knocked into you, that you tend to only be allowed so much, rationed out between everyone. If you get caught taking more from the stores, that can be a pretty heavy punishment depending on your commanding officer."

It does make him think, though. He leans forward, elbows on knees. "In a way, it's an overdose that gives us our powers in the first place. The first dose, the very first one, you don't just make it up with your philter and take a drink and that's that. The first one is like...a big infusion, somehow. I couldn't actually tell you specifically how it works; I was never a high enough rank to be taught that, and the memories of it happening are..." He waggles a hand. "Let's say they tend to be interpretive in a way. I could tell you what I remember, but I couldn't say with any accuracy if it's what actually happened. But a senior member of the Order gives you a big shock to your system of the stuff."

[portalling]

“Hm. Alright. That’s good. So at least it seems we might not have the problem of over-indulgence.”

It doesn’t sound like he’s going to be wrangling opiate addicts hankering for a fix, trying to break into Riftwatch’s limited supply. You can practically see this edge to his attentiveness: in another world, he’d be clicking his pen and transcribing all of this. And it is interesting, and useful; this is the sort of thing he needs to know.

“This is valuable context, thank you,” Stephen says. “I’ll have to see— well. With Mr. Dickerson gone, I’m picking up a few more additional responsibilities around the infirmary, and all of this might become relevant. I don’t want Riftwatch’s templars to suffer if we haven’t accounted for this variable.

“And it might go without saying, my distaste for an organisation making their recruits chemically dependent on a material with a supply that they control,” but Mobius isn’t with a Circle anymore, he’s here with Riftwatch, so. “Ordinarily I would be in favour of kicking it if you can — you never know if something will come up, if you’ll be stranded somewhere for a long-term period like we were in the Fade, and then you’ll be worse off — but if you’ve got it under control. If you’ve made that decision. Then I’ll respect that.”

It feels more like a permanent pain management regimen — which he was, of course, once intimately familiar with, those gruelling days and weeks after each surgery pinning his hands back together.

[favoriteanalyst]

"So long as Riftwatch is able to keep some set aside for those of us that still take, there shouldn't be any problems. If we ever run into a shortage..." Mobius gives a shrug. "Shove an emergency lyrium potion in our hands every couple days? It's not exactly the same, but might be same enough."

That sounds like that should be that. And it should be. There's not even a lecture on how he needs to quit the habit, even if it's recommended, and for good reason. He almost even lets it go at that. Withdrawal symptoms are far more likely what he'll run into, after all.

If the rest tends to go unsaid, then this in particular is something that is kept close to the chest. His fingers curl along his legs, straighten out again. Fascinating how he still retains muscle memory for muscles he can no longer feel. (It's tendons being pulled by muscles he can feel, to be technical, but not the point.) That's probably what will keep him going, if he lives that long. Muscle memory.

"Stephen." He looks up, steels himself when he catches the eyes of a friend.

"There are long-term effects. Besides the addiction. Things you see in the older Templars, things you see in the ones lucky enough to retire with a nice controlled stipend of lyrium to your name and a little place in Val Royeaux. And you're probably going to try harder to get me to quit, but what I do--what I can do is too important. I've been doing this for decades. Flint will keep stealing me away for missions for Forces, I'm sure, because of what I can do, and I intend to keep being able to do it. With any luck, I'll be dead long before it becomes an issue. Do you understand?"

[portalling]

Small blessings, that Stephen isn’t quite enough of an asshole to lecture someone else about their substance use which he only just learned about, like, five minutes ago. Particularly when there were only seemed to be downsides in quitting: you would be eliminating the risk of going into accidental withdrawal, but it was balanced against the pain of withdrawal itself, and losing your powers.

But this changes the equation, abruptly tips the scales. It seems there was something Mobius hadn’t mentioned, has skirted around, and almost omitted entirely.

After a pause, Stephen asks: “What long-term effects, precisely? And how old?”

He’s shooting the other man a sharp, doubtful look: at the laughter-lines around Mobius’ eyes, the pure shock of grey in his hair. He’s, what, fifty?

Not aged yet, but also not young.

[favoriteanalyst]

"More length of use than how old you are, which is why you see it in the older ones. Don't ask me numbers; I don't know. Like every other damn thing, it's gonna be different factors, and it's also one of those things that tends to be gradual enough that you don't know it's happening until you're ass-deep in it."

And Stephen hasn't agreed to much of anything, here, but if he stops now or pesters until he hears a 'yes I understand' and a 'no I won't talk you out of it' and a 'cross my heart and hope to die I won't tell a single other soul this fact ever', their stubborn natures are going to spin wheels against each other.

Mobius slumps back and spreads his hands. Tries to say it, doesn't, then tries again.

"I said one of the withdrawal symptoms was getting forgetful. And...the funny flip of the coin is, long-term use does the same thing. You start to forget. Everything. A little and a little at a time until you're not a whole lot better than a doorstop. And for some Templars, who don't have anyone to care for them, who want to be on the job until they drop, some just get sent to some chantry Maker knows where and plays guard duty. Guess some things just get so ingrained you couldn't forget even with your brain fried. You get--clumsy, you get agitated, you get disoriented. I've heard it called dementia before. If you don't stop and you don't die, that's how you end up. Losing more and more of yourself."

And it's utterly terrifying, scares him near as much as Red Templars do (for a lot of the same reasons, if he's honest). He's spent his whole life reading and learning and knowing things. All that effort, to eventually be erased. Little by little.

He looks at Stephen, just this side of helpless, and then to the middle distance. "I've been--I try to write things down. So I don't forget. Ever since my hands went, writing's such a pain in the ass, so now it's even harder to keep track. Anytime I forget something, I have to wonder: is that just me being human who can't keep everything in my head all the time? Or is it the lyrium finally starting to eat away at me? If it's started, it's not bad enough yet to notice, and Maker willing, by the time it gets that bad, I'll be a wizened old fool ready to go anyway."

[portalling]

If he were a little less distracted at the moment, he’d feel oddly gratified that Mobius knows him so well by now. That he didn’t try to force Stephen into an additional promise beforehand, and that muttered you’re probably going to try harder to get me to quit. Because it’s true: Stephen’s first kneejerk thought is what the fuck, you should quit immediately.

For a neurosurgeon, this is his own personal nightmare. That sounds hellish, he’d said, but he was wrong. This part is so much worse.

“God, Mobius, that’s…” He falters out. Tries to imagine it. Can’t. Stephen Strange’s own mind has always been the sharpest thing about him, even when his body failed him and fell short.

“Dementia is a fucking nightmare, even back in my world; we don’t have a cure for it either. And you really haven’t reconsidered? You still want to keep taking it, knowing that awaits you? You could still be useful in Forces, swinging a sword without your templar abilities. Plenty of people swing a sword without bringing magical abilities to the field. Flint himself, for one.”

This is why he couldn’t promise in advance to understand. To not try, as an initial reaction, to talk his friend out of it. He can’t not.

[favoriteanalyst]

Even with the fear, even with that deeply rooted fear of the thing inside of him waiting to tear him apart, he's going to be one of those assholes who thinks his faith sustains him. And stubborn determination. He sighs, a deep and vaguely annoyed sound, shaking his head.

"How many Templars, active ones, who still take the damn stuff do you think are in Riftwatch right now? And how often do we go up against mages? The Venatori are pretty much all mages, and we can't rely on the Divine's help since she called all the faithful of the Order back to her new Exalted March, which is going just swimmingly." Oh yeah, and this Divine also isn't the friendliest to a lot of their people. "We need to be able to shut that shit down at the source." The long and the short of it, as far as he's concerned. If they can't disconnect mages from their powers out in the field, then they can't win. Maybe that's closed-minded of him, but in a numbers game? Riftwatch is vastly outnumbered.

"I'm here to make a difference. This is how I make a difference! If all you needed was a guy to swing a sword, lots of people can swing a sword. If all you needed was a librarian or another guy who likes to read a little too much when not swinging a sword, you can find that, too. This is what I do. Let me do this."

[portalling]

Stephen’s mouth thins, presses tight around that displeasure. Because as aggravated as he is with this, and what an absolute fucking waste it is for Mobius to have to watch his own slow deterioration and feel himself slip away —

Stephen can, also, understand the motivation. He, too, could have chosen to heal himself at any time — could have held his hands together with magic and gone back to surgery, at the cost of funnelling all his magical attention into keeping them functional, not having anything else left over for actual magic, giving up on being a sorcerer. Giving up his role in saving the world. Instead, he chose living day-in and day-out with that chronic pain and disability. So who the hell is he to say Mobius can’t do something similar?

(Hypocrite.)

He could argue, he could shout back, but instead his fingers just dig into the meat of his crossed arms until his joints ache again.

“You,” he says, “are infuriatingly noble. How the hell am I supposed to argue against that point?”

[favoriteanalyst]

"By telling me I'm being an idiot."

It's almost like weathering Ellie after she found out what he used to do for a living. Because it is a weathering, to face it and to let it wash over and to be somewhat diminished in the wake but to be still standing even still. Stephen's a doctor. Was a doctor. Is. His job is to help patients live their best lives. And Mobius knows people have made it through withdrawal to the other side.

But that's not the point. The point is that he can't do what he does without it, so he has to keep taking it.

"You could say I'm not so noble. I've felt withdrawal before; I don't really want that in my life ever again if I can help it. That's one of those things that makes an addiction an addiction. I don't want to kick the habit; I like the habit. You could tell me we have other ways of fighting the Venatori that don't involve neutralizing magic. You could tell me I'm crazy."

That last point never used to hurt. And he would still ignore anyone who suggested it. But deep in those ruins, when he didn't know who he was, who anyone else was (a taste of things to come), he can still hear those damn birds. Crazy and unrighteous and deluded and ignoble and forgotten. And forgetting. Stephen didn't think him crazy after divulging that the reason he does what he does, why he's with Riftwatch, is just because of signs and portents he thinks he sees in his life. Ellie had shared some experiences. Astarion had humored him, at least, in that cat-like way he had.

Rifters seem to understand it better. The strange and the weird and the miraculous.

It doesn't mean he isn't crazy.

"The red stuff? Does what the blue stuff does but tenfold. Bigger, stronger, bolder. More addicted. They lose themselves in a way that's much faster and much more horrifying. That, that thing I've lost brothers and sisters to, that scares me more than a slow descent. And I gotta tell you, the slow descent scares the piss out of me, but it's a fear that I'm willing to live with so I can keep doing my job. When I die, I want it to be doing my job; I want it to be protecting people from the very real evil that's in this world. So you can argue, if you want. I won't stop you; I'll even try to listen. I almost wish you would," he admits. "But you're not going to change my mind. This is what I was chosen to do."

[portalling]

It’s a sharp twinge in his chest, recognising too much of himself in this man. No wonder they get along. No wonder Stephen likes him.

It’s wild, the whiplash he’s gone through in this conversation. Mobius has pulled the rug out from under him, because first Stephen found himself thinking the addiction was acceptable enough, then utterly untenable, and now: a necessary evil. Because who else is Mobius harming, except himself? Only himself, by throwing himself on that sword.

This is what I was chosen to do.

“I don’t think I ever told you about my teacher,” he says, suddenly, the topic banking sideways. “The Ancient One, I only knew her by that name. She was the one who— she didn’t try to talk me out of sorcery, in fact, the very opposite. She encouraged me, said that the world would have use of my talents and I would be able to do so much more good where I was, if I didn’t do the selfish thing. Taught me to see the bigger picture, the forest over the trees. So the selfish thing, the safer thing, would be to tell you to go through the withdrawal and spare your sanity.

“But unlike people who caught a shard, you had a choice in coming to Riftwatch. And you didn’t come to Riftwatch to be safe. This is a sacrifice. And unfortunately you’re right: this is a war and you can do more good here, with those powers, against these mages. So. I want to tell you to do the thing that’s better for you, but instead I’m going to echo my teacher’s words and say that you have the choice to serve something greater than yourself. And, ultimately, who am I to take that choice from you.”

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius tips his head in the way he tends to when he's taking in new information and considering it, when he's considering Rifters, when he's considering the person in front of him. Because on the surface of it all, Stephen Strange is a pompous, arrogant man. And Mobius knows for a fact that that isn't true at all.

Well. It's a little true; these are still facets of Stephen's personality. But it is not the whole of him. Sacrifices were made for the power he gained, and the weight of the world on his shoulders is not something that's ever taken on lightly.

"I know I always have a choice. But in a way it didn't feel like I did. I saw the sign and realized where I needed to be. I don't always feel useful, and I don't always feel like I did the right thing sometimes, but where else would I go? Find some other city in the Free Marches to try and rebuild a life only for it to get burned down, too?" He hesitates, just briefly, because that comes very close to Starkhaven. Other places have been wiped off the map, but that's been the biggest so far. He'd let Gela know, but that--

"No, I belong here where I can do the most good. Even if there are people here who would rather see me dead if they thought they could get away with it. And if I die in service to this greater cause, better here than being on the front lines of the Exalted March getting chewed up and spat out. Thank you," he says ultimately, with a sag in his shoulders, "for understanding."

[portalling]

“Sometimes I honestly wish I didn’t,” Stephen admits. “It’s an ugly sort of calculus, burning up your own life. Plus sacrificing others, sometimes.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Instead, fidgety and restless, he picks up a quill from the table and spins it between his gnarled fingers. And there’s something to what Mobius said which is nagging at him, and maybe he’s reading too much into it, but:

“There are people within Riftwatch who literally want to see you dead? — or do you mean, the whole mage-templar war. Thing.”