faderift | MOD EVENT: Crossover

Entry tags:

MOD EVENT: Crossover

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.

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i
[Mobius is, honestly, kind of hoping for something to happen. That time they all thought they were in worlds the Rifters were from, for weeks at a time, when only hours had passed at most? Maker, what a thrill that had been!

Would beat trudging around the Crossroads like this. And the spirits are always so tremendously unhelpful, even when they're trying to be helpful. The Fade might be better at this point, ugh, but he won't say that, no.

What he will do is follow along behind a spirit taking on the appearance of a young boy, with wild blond hair and a freshly busted up face--nose in particular. He's not a big fan of this, but what else is he going to do? Try and take on this maze himself?] I hope we aren't going in circles. Some of the spirits do that instead.

ii
[Or, hey, what about being left to traverse a dark tunnel whose paths seem to move on their own? I'm sure that's fine. So's the whispering from the fear spirits. How well do they know each other? What's really driving them? Sure would be a shame if something happened in this spooky darkness and someone didn't make it back...]

iii
[this is also the wildcard option. reconciliation paths if there's a bone to pick, or maybe y'all walking along and someone tells a naughty lie and where'd the path go. actual wild goose chase spirits. go nutso.]

iv
[Mobius hefts himself overtop a boulder that has done them the disservice of being tremendously in the way and would take a lot of backtracking to go around. When he lands--well, it's on the other side of the boulder, in a way, except the path doesn't keep going.

The sound of his landing echoes in this stony, enclosed room. The torch throws shadows everywhere, but his breath that's been making clouds in what feels like an unnatural cold stops up in his chest.]

Why in Andraste's name is there a Circle in the middle of the Crossroads?

[Like a dank basement, a cellar probably. The apprentice staves leaned in a corner are telling, and some other odds and ends visible that scream of an old Circle. Magical supplies along with more mundane ones. He lays a hand on the hilt of his sword and inches forward.

It's not Ostwick. He's certain of that much.] Be careful.

That rock is new, [ Bastien says, which is probably true. It feels true. That might just be the optimism; he's in as good a mood as he's ever been, in this part of the Fade.

The reason is the second spirit accompanying them, in the shape of a short, skinny preteen with unruly curls, wearing his too-big poor man's clothing with a touch of panache and toting a beat-up lute that's missing two strings. Old enough to have a fully Royan accent, no sign of the Marcher parents back home. Old enough to enjoy a good lie. And that's the best luck Bastien's ever had in this part of the Crossroads. ]

What happened to his nose? To your nose.

[ This question from Bastien's little spirit, to Mobius' solid form. ]

[Small Mobius, meanwhile, looks well-to-do enough to imply money in the family. Not fancy Orlesian froufrou, in his mind, but definitely better off than, say, a farmer's boy. There's a book under his arm, no title visible, but he's pretty sure he's got an idea which old tome it might specifically be. He hasn't spoken yet, but he looks bright eyed, bushy tailed, determined at every turn.

Maybe that rock is new. He can trust a small too smart for his own good kiddo, right?]

School of hard knocks, [is what he jokes to small Bastien, and subsequently big Bastien.] He'll grow into it. You gonna fix that lute up someday?

Sure, [ both Bastiens say at once.

The real one grins at this. How easy it is to be fond of the little bastard, when the little bastard is of an age not to give too much away. But that seems like his cue. He speeds up his walk to catch up with the little blonde, leaving his own ghostly child to hang out with Mobius.

The child says, in the thick and unforgiving Orlesian accent of someone who rarely if ever has to make himself understood to foreigners, ]

I am saving up for it. It is expensive though, you know? And a man, [ small boy, whatever, ] has to eat. If you can scrounge up a penny for me when we get where we are going, I will be that much closer to a new set of strings.

[ His technique could use some subtlety. But he's, like, eleven. He'll get there.

Meanwhile, Bastien — the real one — tilts his head to try to look at the book the other child is clutching. No luck, so he whispers, ] What are you reading?

[Cute little rascal. Good thing it's just a spirit, or real adult Mobius might be tempted to part with real metal coin just for the hell of it. It does take a moment for him to parse all that's said, but he's been around Orlesians before. Even thickly accented ones.] Or at least that much closer to something to eat. One's a little more important than the other. But maybe only a little.

[He gives a curious, almost wary eye ahead to the pair doing most of the leading now. He knows why this age, given he genuinely can't remember anything before the incident. Remembers being a precocious and insistent little shit. Stubborn as all hell and full of blessing. Or horseshit.] What do you see yourself doing when you're older? Gonna be a musician?

[Meanwhile: the younger up front, pausing at a fork, looking between them thoughtfully, and choosing the rightmost path with confidence. When RealStien comes up alongside, he's spared a brief glance, and then shifts the book to hug it a little more to his chest.]

It's mathematics. [The accent is distinctly Nevarran, very different from real Mobius' mild broadly Marcher-ish or even Orzammarian type accent.] I'm told it's too complex for me, but it isn't. Not all of it, anyway.

[Over the rock, with much scraping and scuffling appears—

Wysteria. Which isn't a surprise, given that she has been his traveling companion through the Crossroads for some hours now, but nonetheless there's something just slightly comical about her clambering up onto the top of the boulder in her skirts and scuffed yellow field boots. At the top of the broad stone, she pauses to squint through the gloom that has closed about them. For just a moment. Then, she is kicking her feet before her and hopping down off the other side of the boulder with far more aptitude than one might guess.

(Say what one will about Madame de Foncé, but this is not her first adventure to the wild corners of Thedas.)]

My, my. Now this is unexpected. I suppose we should arrange for a light if we're to proceed on, Ser.

[The unnatural gleam of the Crossroads bleeds sluggishly into only this space that has immediately opened to greet them, and doesn't appear to extend much farther.]

[It isn't her first adventure, no, and so between that knowledge and his distraction of the surroundings, he feels he could be forgiven for not offering a helping hand down.]

This could be useful. Old supplies are still supplies for our mages. Phylacteries. Templar equipment.

[Said while still distracted, and then the words catch up. Light--right, light.] Hold on a minute. [Plenty of old torches lining the walls. All it needs is a little flint spark to get going. Though the cobwebs and the dust burn away first. It's a little stiff at first, but a good tug or two loosens it from its resting place. At least, besides light, it also offers a small modicum of heat. Not enough to penetrate much through the awful chill, but it's something. Better than nothing, always.]

Unless this is all an illusion of the Crossroads.

It's difficult to say, [she remarks, sweeping away a clinging mass of cobwebs from some bit of their surroundings.] But I expect continuing on will settle the matter one way or another.

[But in deference to the unknown, Wysteria makes to work free the keeper on the slim metal fan strapped to her forearm. With a decisive flick, the fan wheels open into a circular disk shape, clicking into place with a soft snik. Safety first, implies the little collapsible buckler shield.]

You're gonna make the Commander jealous with all the fancy toys for out in the field.

[Or, rather, he expects Flint finds the idea of getting fancy when what's worked for generations still works perfectly well to be tiring, but shh.]

Now, some Circles, they've got the extra supplies down here, but also the harrowing room's sometimes down underneath everything. [He runs his hand along a shelf, disturbing the dust that swirls up in frankly unnatural and slow patterns. Huh. There were some herbs here, dried and tied together, but now brittle enough to crumble at a touch.] If this is real, [warily, uncertain] then the veil's probably real thin to boot. Could mean spirits. Could mean worse.

[Rather than trepidation this cautionary note prompts, somewhat outrageously, Wysteria to pause and turn to assess him rather than herself. If he armed? How frightened is he of spirits? Surely it is true he once was a man of some martial abilities, but he spends a great deal of time now in the Gallows' library.]

Will you be all right, or should we turn back and see if we can retrieve some assistance?

Will I be all right? [It's a scoffing kind of laugh, surprise and incredulity. He thinks, initially, that she must perhaps be concerned about--not for him, but that his time as a Templar might color his view of this place, that he might actually be less help if he's going to jump at shadows.

But even that doesn't seem quite like her. It has, at least, never been anything of concern for her to bring up before. So it isn't that so much as just generally wondering if he's good to go. Addled old bookworm, scared of old stones and the ghosts they might hold.

He holds the torch out to her to take.] I'm probably one of the best people in Riftwatch you could take to a Circle. You wanna light the way, or you want me to forge on ahead? [Giving her the choice. There is definitely concern on his end that if she takes the lead, she'll stop and examine every little detail, lost in the small things rather than focusing on the big picture. But it could be argued that that's half the point of this expedition.

Either way. He's got a sword with him, and a few other tricks up his sleeve. He's sure Wysteria has more tricks up hers. They'll be fine. It'll wound his ego otherwise.]

[This seems to mollify her—certainly she makes no further show of concern, or insists on taking up the offered torch. Instead, she takes a half step back in order to clear the way ahead for him.]

Very well. In that case, lead on.

[If he's quite certain, then who is she to argue when there are exciting derelict mage towers to be explored?]

[He sends a silent thanks to the Maker that this didn't immediately blow up into some kind of argument as things between them always threaten to whether intended or not. A nod, and he moves.

And for her curious sake, he doesn't move too fast. If they need assistance with anything, it might only be for any larger supplies they might want to snag, but with so many years of dust and decay, they are both likely to only go for things like books, scrolls, parchment with some information or history.]

They aren't going to be here, in storage, but we might come across a heavier duty door with more delicate matters behind it if it hasn't been taken care of already. I don't... [He trails off, making a humming noise. Huh.] I don't actually know what the official position Riftwatch has about phylacteries. I've read some older material about Rifters being allowed to opt into getting them made if they want. What would we do if we came across a cache of them? [And another thoughtful hum. He speaks aloud, though Wysteria might get the impression he's more talking it through to himself.] Doubtful that Seekers would have just let them get abandoned in any Circles if they could help it after all this time, but you never know. Not like there're many of them left.

[Is it all moot? He raises the torch higher, looking up. The ceiling arches up above them, high enough for some old braziers not to catch the shelves alight. Glances at the walls to peer at the stone, as though he could divine a location from architecture and structure. As though he knows enough about any of that to be useful.

It's an old enclosed stone basement. And yet the chill still feels...more, somehow. He shivers slightly.] Crossroads does a lot of weird things. Feel like it has an influence here.

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MOD EVENT: Crossover

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iv (mea culpa i'm so late)

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