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player plot | when my time comes around, pt. 5
WHO: Everyone!
WHAT: Everything's fine and we're going to have feelings about it.
WHEN: August 15 9:49
WHERE: Primarily the Gallows! But potentially anywhere.
NOTES: We made it! You are all free of my tyrannical plot grasp! There is a final OOC post with some notes + space for plotting here.
WHAT: Everything's fine and we're going to have feelings about it.
WHEN: August 15 9:49
WHERE: Primarily the Gallows! But potentially anywhere.
NOTES: We made it! You are all free of my tyrannical plot grasp! There is a final OOC post with some notes + space for plotting here.
This is a timeline where, some mild chaos aside, things for the last month have carried on as normal. Riftwatch hasn't lost anyone at all. There were no funerals. The work continued. The late afternoon of August 15 may find people at their desks, in the midst of meetings or debriefs, in the library, in the sparring yard. Or maybe afield, seeing to errands or meetings or missions somewhere else in Thedas. Maybe, if they are particularly unlucky, they are deep in conversation with an ally or embroiled in combat with an enemy agent at the precise moment when the magical connection between two realities closes and the diverging timelines snap together into one existence.
At that moment, everyone forgets what it is they were just doing. Instead they remember what they might have been doing in the world where a third of Riftwatch's number was lost, despite their hands suddenly occupied with the normal business of handling pens or swords or books they don't recall picking up.
For the always-living, it may feel as though they have been magically transported somewhere new mid-thought. For the dead—the formerly dead, the might-have-been dead—it will feel as though they have just woken up. Perhaps they'll have a vague sense of a dream they now can't recall, in between their last conscious moment amid the blood and screams in Granitefell and awakening just now in a quieter world, or perhaps they'll have a sense of nothing at all.
For a few hours, the worse world will be the only one anyone can remember. Over time, memories of the other world—the only one that really exists now—will filter in, competitive with other memories in a way that might require everyone to double or triple check whether they wrote a letter or completed a mission in that timeline or this one. But the memories of death and dying will never fade into anything less real.
At that moment, everyone forgets what it is they were just doing. Instead they remember what they might have been doing in the world where a third of Riftwatch's number was lost, despite their hands suddenly occupied with the normal business of handling pens or swords or books they don't recall picking up.
For the always-living, it may feel as though they have been magically transported somewhere new mid-thought. For the dead—the formerly dead, the might-have-been dead—it will feel as though they have just woken up. Perhaps they'll have a vague sense of a dream they now can't recall, in between their last conscious moment amid the blood and screams in Granitefell and awakening just now in a quieter world, or perhaps they'll have a sense of nothing at all.
For a few hours, the worse world will be the only one anyone can remember. Over time, memories of the other world—the only one that really exists now—will filter in, competitive with other memories in a way that might require everyone to double or triple check whether they wrote a letter or completed a mission in that timeline or this one. But the memories of death and dying will never fade into anything less real.
no subject
"I'm not entirely sure where to begin, but it's ... we're here now because of fairly massive time magic." His voice is pitched such that it would be hard to casually overhear, but John can catch it clearly enough. "Provost Stark spearheaded the project. For those of us who lived, it feels like it's been weeks since Granitefell. I'm not entirely sure when it is now relative to when I expect it should be, I imagine we'll sort that back at the Gallows." There's so much to explain that he's still trying to sort through the components even as he starts. They've both been thrust into an unfamiliar present, even if their paths there diverged sharply.
He's not as shaken as he was after Granitefell itself, but however many weeks it's been for him, it's certainly not been enough for him to process everything that happened. Layering it unhappening on top has left him more than a little agitated, for all that he's hiding it better now that he's had some time after the initial shock.
no subject
"I've an appointment," John says slowly. Does he? The sense of having been unmoored persists, makes it difficult to reconcile with the present moment. He has an appointment. Is that true now or not?
"How massive?" comes as if picking up a dropped thread, little expectation of discussing what obligations may await John regardless of this rupture in reality. A spell as great as Julius alludes to must have carried some severe risk in its undertaking. Had the Provost begged permission, or simply gone ahead with it?
as always with tags this old, we can handwave if you prefer
Julius rubs his wrist absently, his staff on his back and leaving his hands restlessly unoccupied.
"The thrust of it was a coordination between several of the surviving rifters. Stark, Mme. de Fonce, Strange and Viktor. Stark had Flint and Yseult's buy-in before he informed the rest of us, but it was." A shaky laugh. "I told him I didn't think it would work. Fuck. Sorry." He would love to give John a more solid and coherent account, but he's doing his best under the circumstances.