MOD EVENT: Crossover

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone (give or take)
WHAT: Reorganizing the Crossroads
WHEN: Wintermarch 9:50
WHERE: The Crossroads
NOTES: A small event to help everyone shake off the winter break.

Shortly into the new year, Riftwatch's routine visits to the Crossroads–to get from here to there, or just to check up on the eluvians and watch for any signs of Venatori or elven presence–turn less routine. Patches of the Crossroads give way quite suddenly to patches of what seems to be (for lack of a better word) the real world, evidenced by sudden changes of landscape and temperature, the sudden presence of small mammals and birds. In the first of these locations to be discovered, snow blows up a crumbling Crossroads stairway from the snowy clearing below; in the clearing, gravity's hold is gentler than it should be, snow swirling up alongside the staircase that climbs up into a grey sky and never coming back down. Wisps or spirits may follow you freely here. One enterprising spirit has possessed a squirrel and is considering the merits of wandering off into the world. Walk far enough across the ground, away from the stairs, and things become normal (as much as Thedas ever is)–but the staircase is still waiting if you turn back the other way, the Crossroads there to walk into without any particular effort or magic at all.

This is of course a sign of a grave problem that warrants further investigation. But the instability in the Crossroads also presents a more immediate and practical threat to Riftwatch's work: the eluvians Riftwatch uses to traverse Thedas and reach some otherwise far-flung or inaccessible locations are scattered throughout the Crossroads, and reaching them is already becoming more difficult, not to mention the danger of someone else—foe or unwitting stranger—blundering into Riftwatch's work. So for a week in Wintermarch, everyone able and available will be assigned to relocating the eluvians: reaching them in the Crossroads, uprooting them from their ancient locations, and carrying them to rearrange on a single stone platform that so far seems sturdy and unaffected, where they can be more easily monitored and protected all in one place.

There are only six eluvians that Riftwatch regularly uses, but the instability is making them more difficult to reach, and they're heavy and unwieldy enough that multiple people will need to assist with transporting each one. Meanwhile, everyone will be asked to observe and make notes on the changes they encounter, as well as to collect other eluvians–the ones that lead to ruins in wild forests with no signs of where those forests might be, or deserted remote fortresses, or pitch-black caves, or the unyielding wooden walls that mean the mirror's counterpart is packed up somewhere behind and beneath loads of junk–to preserve them in case their Thedosian counterparts can be located and moved somewhere more practicable in the future. (These that are not yet usable will be arranged in a second location, separate but not so inconveniently far from the first.)

While trying to complete this work, Riftwatch will encounter the same spirits and hazards that have always made using the Crossroads a bit of a headache: paths that collapse ahead of them if they tell a lie while chatting with their traveling companions, spirits of suspicion that try to trap and drive wedges between them, guides who take on the embarrassing and/or adorable forms of the people they're guiding as children, wisps fascinated with travelers' impulses and emotions who endeavor to replicate them. The good news is that the new configuration of the eluvians will make walking through these spirits' domains unnecessary in the future and could mean many people will never have to deal with them again after this.

The bad news is that in the meantime, those retrieving the eluvians will have to deal with both the usual nonsense and the new patches where the borders give way and dimensions blend together. In these patches, the landscape and laws of the world mixes with the features and rules (or lack thereof) of the Crossroads. Sometimes this means the world, like the Crossroads, is more colorful for elves and more oppressive to everyone else–something akin to having to walk and work with a terrible headache, except there's no pain, only light and sound sensitivity and a general sense of difficulty and slowness. Other times it means something that looks more like the Crossroads feels more like the mundane world to humans and rifters, actually. Sometimes the Crossroad's loose ideas about gravity will be applied to a real river; sometimes the world's more strict laws will impose on a river in the Crossroads.

When these places are discovered, agents will be tasked not with avoiding them, but exploring them to estimate their sizes, note any features that might narrow down their locations on the map, and search for any signs of populations–in vain, fortunately. While a number of these locations are within ruins or abandoned villages, something is currently causing them to appear in areas that people seem to be avoiding. Journeying beyond the perimeter of the effect will reveal a strong contender for an explanation: these areas are places where the Veil is already damaged and thin, with spirits and demons passing through to discourage resettlement after whatever disaster or massacre weakened the barrier.

But the largest patch of bleed-through that Riftwatch will discover is also the least remote. Here a door in the Crossroads opens onto a wet, cold underground chamber, clearly man-made, roughly fifty yards across and roughly circular. The perimeter of the chamber shows signs of use for some academic purpose–crumbling shelves, the moldering and unreadable remnants of books left exposed to the damp for centuries, rusted and shattered equipment.

But the center of this chamber turns to jagged dark rock threaded with raw lyrium veins, and the ceiling shifts in the dark–sometimes a ceiling carved into stone, sometimes a churning sky in sickly dark green. Squint and you might see the Black City's floating island in the distance, for a moment. As the moments add up over the course of hours, a keen eye might notice that the carved ceiling of the chamber is shifting in a way stone shouldn’t shift, losing its careful patterns to a more chaotic swirl.

Exploring to establish the outer perimeter of this disruption will require venturing down branching hallways and tunnels, some of them populated by shades and freshly possessed skeletons. Another fifty yards or so out, in pursuit of any identifying features to place this on a map, the jet black stone and design of crumbling old mining equipment might start to give the observant a sinking feeling. Another hundred, and one of the labyrinthe and increasingly claustrophobic tunnels will end in a cave-in that is fairly recent, judging by the state of the three skeletons of people who appear to have died trying to dig back out. Their clothes and possessions have mostly rotted away in the moist air, but two of their skeletal hands are still wearing signet rings stamped with the Coterie's symbol.

Comments

Barrow ota

[thereneverwas]

I. Exploring

a. It would be inaccurate to say Barrow is alone at the head of the pack, because there is a chubby little boy marching along beside and around him, stalwartly waving a stick in the same manner that his adult version holds a torch. The bridge they're crossing is rickety, but the spirit navigates it without issue, as Barrow takes careful, measured steps and braces himself with one hand on the rope guard.
He's met his child self in the Crossroads a few times before, and can't help but keep an eye on him in a way that would bring up a torrent of emotions, if he let it: Can anything happen to a spirit? If it does, would it kill him too? Is it weird to feel protective of himself? Would the little shit please stop running around?

b. This quickly becomes irrelevant as the bridge transitions to a rock formation, revealing that the party has traveled into a deep underground cave. Barrow is glad for his torch, with no light filtering in from above, although he curses his gratitude a moment later as the whoosh of an arriving intangible hostile extinguishes it.
"Fuck," he announces to whomever might be behind him, the only light now emanating off Little Obie, who brandishes his stick with frightened determination-- and also from the revenants emerging from shabby wooden boxes placed along the edges of the path.


II. Wildcard

a

[extortionate]

Lazar is also watching the bridge. He's watching the end of it, where another boy - tall for his age, and hungry in the eyes - advances towards young Barrow; rolling up worn sleeves.

"Easy," He calls, like it'll do fuck-all, like it really matters if two spirits get in a scrap - and then - "Ah, shit,"

Ten-year-old Lazar hunches his head down like a bull, and charges the second spirit. The bridge swings wild.

[thereneverwas]

"Hey--" Barrow calls, noticing a fraction of a second too late what's about to happen, and by then it's too late: he braces himself, taking a painful knee on the swinging bridge, cursing quietly under his breath. He's on the verge of shutting down, in a way that's quite unusual for him: his hands shake as he grips the ropes, giving a single, frantic shout of "KNOCK IT OFF," to the spirits.

The shorter boy has risen gamely to the challenge, fully aware of his weight advantage as he attempts to throw his assailant off-balance.

[extortionate]

The tall boy takes it in his skinny gut (a wince: the memory of empty meals), arms flopping over the other's back. He doesn't look unhappy about it, even as he falls dangerously near a broken board, bashes his nose on his own elbow; just smears illusory red across the back of his hand, and grins. Half a moment later he's on the kid again, trying to bite.

Lazar hasn't moved an inch: Tracks the rock the ropes, Barrow's jostled limbs. Be a shame to go out like this, be a worse shame for two to.

"He's not gonna stop," Lazar warns. "We can turn around."

It's the Crossroads, there's always another path. If they backtrack far enough -

[thereneverwas]

Swiping a hand down in his face in aggravation, Barrow shakes his head, braces himself: the only thing worse than being on this fucking bridge would be going backwards on this fucking bridge, and they've already spent too much time here.

"All right," he bellows, a born natural at the Dad Voice, and forges ahead. He ploughs right through the tussling specters with a shiver, his eyes squeezing shut at the awful cold tingle in his legs.

They don't stop, of course; the chubbier boy has managed to hug his rival from behind, trying to restrict his arms.

[extortionate]

Lazar waits for Barrow to make it. His reluctance doesn't shift when the other man disembarks, safely past the spirits. Tall kid is stomping a foot, but Chub's got better technique. Going about it smart.

Something cold curls in his skull, an old fracture. Discomfort that Lazar seldom entertains. He doesn't want to pass that boy on the bridge. That memory of -

Doesn't matter. He pushes past the two, and something in the tall kid's face changes. There's blood from his head, a lot of it, and Chubby didn't do a thing. He pitches over the side of the bridge,

"Come on," Lazar nudges Barrow's elbow. "Yours'll catch up."

[thereneverwas]

Having turned to see that Lazar makes it across, Barrow witnesses this strange display; it's only upsetting in the visual sense, since he knows the boys are incorporeal, but there's something about Lazar's face that gives him pause.

Barrow meets his eyes, guarded but curious: what was that about?

[extortionate]

Lazar looks back,

"Anderfels," He offers. Doesn't have a damn thing to do with that ugly year. Could've happened anywhere under the Maker's light, "Had a lotta brothers."

ii. >]

[cozen]

Wherever they are, it's warmer than Kirkwall. The ruin's walls are crumbling, letting shafts of sunlight fall through in patches onto the moss and vines retaking the stone floor, and in the moments when the breeze is still and no one is moving, steady ocean waves are audible.

The Crossroads are still there, visible through the open arched doorway behind them. Ahead of them is another door. This one is much more mundane. Probably. It's not really possible for Bastien to tell whether there's something magical or otherworldly about it. There could be, sure. But it looks like nothing but heavy hardwood hinged into stone.

There's a keyhole. Bastien isn't looking at the keyhole. Bastien's standing with a companionable hand on Byerly's shoulder and looking at the wall, which is coated in dirt and moss. He holds his other hand out toward Barrow.

"Can I borrow your shirt?"

[bouchonne]

Byerly looks towards Barrow. His face is pinched, almost peeved, because of how serious this matter is.

"He needs your shirt."

How could you ever doubt the honesty of a man this earnestly focused on their mission?

[thereneverwas]

“Eh?” comes the distracted grunt from Barrow, who’s too busy sizing up the door to fully comprehend what’s being asked. His leather jerkin is already tucked under one arm, having proven too hot for the sort of non-combat movement and exploration they’ve been doing, and by the looks of them he might not strictly mind shedding another layer.

“Bit big for you, innit?” he asks, without turning around.

[cozen]

“Not to wear,” Bastien says. “It’s only the least expensive shirt here, so we can replace it if we need to.”

Because what he is going to do with the shirt might involve it becoming dirty or torn. And what he is going to do with the shirt is—

He doesn’t know. He shoots a glance at Byerly, accompanied by the twitches of his fingers, to communicate behind Barrow’s turned back that he hasn’t thought ahead any further than this.

[bouchonne]

“And the size will be an asset,” says Byerly intently, “so it can absorb all the grime. Look - “

And he points to a spot on the wall, overgrown and caked with mud.

“Do you see that inscription? If we could just clear this away - “

[thereneverwas]

There is a not-insignificant part of Barrow that immediately rebels at the notion of his clothing being used as a rag-- fine, maybe he needs to go shopping, maybe he hasn't had time-- and this is reflected in the look he casts between Bastien and Byerly, whom he's absolutely certain are up to something, but doesn't have the energy to ferret out what it is.

Instead he rolls his eyes, turning around to tug the shirt and toss it behind him, secretly a bit relieved to feel himself cooling off with the damp air right against his skin.

His hand is still gloved as he grips the latch on the door and gives it an experimental shake, pleased to find that not only is it not trapped, but the wood of the door itself is weak and threatens to splinter if pushed.

"Can probably just brute force this one," he calls back, unhooking the sword from his belt.

[cozen]

Bastien might be a little sweaty too, dressed for the more temperate Crossroads and presently acclimated to the much colder Kirkwall, but he looks very unbothered about it. He catches the shirt with one hooked finger and turns his attention—mostly, so far as any observer would be able to tell—to dabbing at the dirt and moss on the wall. If he's only using one sleeve and avoiding actually getting it irreparably filthy, Barrow will have to stop looking at the door for longer than he has yet to be able to notice that.

"Of course you can," he says.

His intermittent glances away from the work of pretending to clean the wall to check on Barrow's progress aren't lingering. Partly because they don't need to be. Partly because his more serious affections have been directed at a string of toothpick-shaped men for a reason. But nonetheless: appreciative. Please carry on with the brute force.

[bouchonne]

Byerly rubs his chin as he looks at Barrow's physique. He does appreciate the pot belly on the man - a fellow should have a bit of meat on him. And then some fat on that meat.

Speaking of -

"Bastien, I'm going to be honest," Byerly says, turning on his beloved. "I think Barrow's shirt isn't going to be enough. I think we'll need yours, too."

(Yes, of course they can knock this door down, but there are more important things going on. Eyes on the prize, Barrow.)

[thereneverwas]

Barrow, now fixated on problem-solving, is content to forget about his shirt (and Bastien's shirt, and whatever else is going on back there) as he begins to bash the pommel of his sword against the latching mechanism, hoping to loosen it enough that he can just pull it apart.

This motion does, of course, have the benefit of an interesting rippling effect over his torso, the scattered scars and old abrasions on which seem to stand out with the sheen of his sweat. There's a fair number of them, as one would expect of a middle-aged knight-turned-mercenary.

a

[favoriteanalyst]

The chubby little marching lad is soon joined by a less chubby spirit boy who is only a little bit more careful. Less bold but still emboldened by something that makes the spirit seem brighter in some way. Or is that just Mobius' eyes tricking him?

He's got both hands along the ropes, anyway, since Barrow's got the torch, and it's a bit of a waste to have several at once if they aren't needed.

"I haven't seen any parts that seem frayed." Are jinxes a thing in Thedas? Because maybe he should knock on some fucking wood. "We're gonna be fine. These guys probably know where they're going."

The little blond shit had better know, he doesn't say.

[thereneverwas]

Being in Rope Bridge Hell already has Barrow's nerves well and truly frayed, but at least things are fairly steady this time around.

"He doesn't," he announces evenly, speaking at least of his smaller counterpart; as if that kid ever knew what he was doing or why. "Does yours?"

[favoriteanalyst]

"I sure hope so," is not a very amazing and reassuring answer, all told. "At the very least, he thinks he does. Which is kinda all we have to go on." He thought he knew a lot of things at that age when, in fact, he really knew fuck all.

"Not keen on backtracking at this point."

[thereneverwas]

"Fuck it then," Barrow says, pleasantly enough despite his serious expression, and forges ahead. "It's not like we know any better than they d--"

He's mid-word when the bridge gives out under his foot, and whether all the slats were about to crumble or the impact of his large frame sends them along their way, Barrow now finds himself gripping the rope railing for dear life; the entire right side of his body dangles, with his left foot barely bracing against a remaining piece of the walkway.

"shit," he says in a small voice.

[favoriteanalyst]

In a much bigger voice: "Shit!"

Any attention to the spirits disappears, although they both certainly take notice. Mobius has to brace himself when the whole bridge shudders and shakes, then starts swinging back and forth from the force. As things settle, as it were, the sound of other slats creaking ominously starts to come through.

Mobius lowers himself down slowly onto his ass, and then scoots himself forward carefully. "I got you." This might be a lie. Or an overstatement, at the very least. He's no slouch; decades of Templar armor carrying will do that, and he hasn't slacked off on his training (too much). But the same applies to Barrow. Who is very solid. Bigger and heavier. It's all about leverage, though. Simple physics, right? "Okay. Easy does it. Give me your--uh, a hand, or a leg, or something I can help you back up with. Just keep your grip strong."

[thereneverwas]

Barrow's eyes are squeezed shut with the effort of holding himself in place, every muscle taut, sweat beading on his furrowed brow.

"I can't do it, mate," he says in quick, terse, stream of consciousness, "I can't fucking take a fall like this again, you'll have to put me down like a fucking horse--"

If he swings any of his limbs, it'll be the end of them both, but he tries to edge his hand a little closer to Mobius even as it presses against the feeble, creaking wood.

[favoriteanalyst]

"Nobody's putting anyone down, you're gonna be--Barrow, listen, I've got you, it's gonna be fine, we'll figure this out."

For as much calm as Mobius wants to exude, his voice is tight with worry. But one thing is for certain: "I'm not leaving you."

What he would like is for the spirits, just far enough away to seem distant, just close enough to be seen, standing there, would do something. But they're spirits. They might've lured them here to start. And even if not, what could they do, really? Barrow edges, and Mobius leans to reach. If he can brace himself--

The wood he's on creaks louder and bows. The rope strains to the point where he can see fraying beginning. Still, he grabs onto Barrow's hand. Under his breath, easy in fact as breathing: "I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond." He pulls for all he's worth. "For there is" rope splitting "no darkness" wood splintering "in the Maker's-"

The bridge gives, and they plummet into the howling abyss.

...only to not drop that far at all, splashing into not a deep canyon with a whitewater river washing deep, but somewhere shallow and nearly pleasant if not for the drop.

"-Light?" Mobius gasps and looks up. The loose ends of the bridge whip wildly in a wind what seems high, high above. But they didn't drop that far or that long. Surely a fall off a ladder instead of a cliff. "Fuck the Crossroads," he sighs, flopping back against the water. Could be the strange and impossible geometries and physics of this place. Could be their spirits managed to do something after all. Fuck it anyway. "Barrow? Barrow, you with me?"

[thereneverwas]

It's to Mobius' credit that he's even slightly able to keep Barrow present; Barrow, whose mind has run off with him to Granitefell, where he remembers the sword punching through his chest as easily as if he'd stubbed his toe-- that wasn't how he died, but will this be? Will he remember it too, if he breaks every bone in his body and lies there for hours? Where did he go, when he was gone?

He tightly grips Mobius' hand, the only thing tethering Barrow to the moment, even when the bridge collapses and he gives a panicked, animal cry--

--that cuts off with an oof as he makes contact. Unshattered.

He sighs, closing his eyes, smarting a little at a rock poking into his shoulder, but that's the worst of his injuries.
"We don't," he says quietly, measuredly, "have to tell anyone about this."