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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
He brushes a thumb under one of her eyes. In there is still the glint of a tear. The short stops to her sentences, nothing like the way she usually speaks. Freckles like rain on sand.
"I'm glad. That it worked, aye. But more'n that. I'm glad you hoped, in the end."
no subject
It strikes her as a ridiculous thing to say, on top of the stammering flightiness of a moment ago, and she shuts her mouth and instead leans her cheek into his hand, not letting the little shake of her head create distance. His skin is warm and rough and smells faintly of tobacco and ale and leather, the friction of callus against her jaw familiar, and she turns into it to press a kiss to the base of his thumb. "I love you," she says into his palm. That doesn't sound stupid.
no subject
No, surely no. It will be signature, always. Something precious they got back.
"I love you."
Easy and simple and true. The truest thing. Darras is still knelt on the floor, so it's nothing at all to shift forward, turn her face so he can kiss her on the mouth.
"I love you. More'n anything." He's got to break the kiss to say it, and quick, makes up for it by kissing her again. "You're all I need, always have been. Even before I met you, you were. And wherever I was, all I was doing was waiting for you, so it's a mercy that we got to find one another again. A mercy and a miracle."
no subject
She tips her head to kiss him and then rests her face against his cheek, eyelashes and breath brushing soft. "Let's go home. We'll collect Rosana and find the first ship to Antiva."