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Fade Rift Mods ([personal profile] faderifting) wrote in [community profile] faderift2024-08-17 03:21 pm

MOD PLOT: With Strides Immeasurable

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: Moving days
WHEN: August 9:50
WHERE: Everywhere, really
NOTES: OOC post. Use appropriate CWs in your subject lines. The image in this post that isn't just straight from the games/promotional images (Qarinus) is by Meggie Rock.




The world is too large and Riftwatch too small to be everywhere, involved in everything. The days of trying to keep their fingers in every pie across Thedas may be past, but the scope of the war still is what it is, rifts can still open on any corner of the continent, the enemy is active all over. So while much attention has naturally been on rebuilding and refortifying Kirkwall and the Gallows since the Venatori attack, they can't remain focused inward for too long. The reorganization of the eluvian network created a protected nexus in the Crossroads, eliminating the need for long journeys through the newly-volatile landscape. Now, Riftwatchers need only pass through the Gallows eluvian (secured in a guarded basement space in the central tower) to find themselves within steps of central Minrathous, Val Royeaux, or Antiva City. Other mirrors in the cluster provide access to new outposts in Qarinus, Nevarra City, and the Rivaini coast, or a long-neglected base in the Hunterhorns.

The priorities of turning outward now are clear: operations in Minrathous and Qarinus must be expanded, the better to marshal forces behind enemy lines. The existing base in Minrathous needs expanding, and a new one in Qarinus established. In Nevarra City, the Mortalitasi have requested assistance with a rift at the Necropolis that is hampering efforts to finally repopulate the city after its long undead occupation. Elsewhere, there are spaces to be dusted off or construction to be overseen, the lay of the land taken for future operations. While not an emergency situation, the work is urgent in the sense that all of their work is urgent. No one who might be unusually unsuited to passing as a local will be sent to Tevinter, where all work is inherently clandestine and therefore dangerous, but it's otherwise more or less all hands on deck, with the ease of travel meaning people can come and go on staggered schedules. Just make sure you've memorized the list of which eluvian is which.


I. MINRATHOUS

Riftwatch's base in Minrathous may be unfamiliar to those outside the Scouting Division, but expanding operations in the city means making space for more visitors. The eluvian is housed in a hidden room in the cellar of the Bear's Tooth tavern, a busy taproom on a middling market street near the center of the city. It's the sort of place that sees a constant stream of diverse customers but few regulars, where a minor nobleman on business might cross paths with a farmer bringing produce to market. The block behind the tavern is more residential, respectable if not quite fashionable, and home to Widow Tavisa's Boarding House, a fading but clean establishment similarly catering to short-term visitors of the mostly-middle classes. The two properties are secretly connected by a tunnel, an ancient winding servant's stair, and their owners' loyalty to Riftwatch.

The upper floor of the boarding house, with its steep eaves, dark velvet wallpaper, and inescapable scent of old flowers, has been kept available for visiting Riftwatch agents for some time now, but there's a secret expansion underway to add the bunk rooms and communal workspaces that will turn this into a proper outpost. Long ago, Widow Tavisa's extended to a second wing next door, but a fire burned most of it to the ground. Left untouched was a hidden basement—a taproom and smoking lounge only ever known to only a select few Tevinter hipsters—that now lies below the walled garden that was built on the ashes of the upper floors. Riftwatch is digging a couple short tunnels through the cellars to secretly connect this space to the other two buildings, and then performing clean-up and some light construction work to make it fit for use.

The place is all dark wood and marble and the over-gilded furnishings typical of Tevinter design trying a little too hard to look more luxurious than it is, now covered in layers of dust and ash. Some fire damaged areas will need to be repaired, and a few ruined walls are better demolished to create a space open enough to house a collection of salvaged tables, chairs, and desks for communal eating and working, centered around a large two-sided fireplace and a lightly singed Tevinter-billiards table. There are bunks to install in the adjoining private rooms, making each fit for at least three agents, and repairs to neglected plumbing in the shared bathroom.

But Minrathous is too large and dangerous a city for just a single safe house, no matter how large, especially now that the Venatori openly control the city, the streets crawling with people in silver-and-blood livery and stalked by fear of their patrolling guards and rumored spies. In addition to pitching in with construction, Riftwatch agents will be tasked with searching out and securing other spots throughout the city for potential future use. This will be good practice for those not yet familiar with moving about the city discreetly, and a chance to feel out the conditions in various neighborhoods.

Someone might be assigned to wander the fashionable cafe district around Tenquillis Square in disguise as an aristocrat's agent looking to secure a pied-à-terre for a mistress, watching the palanquin traffic and listening to the anxious edge to upper-class gossip about the Elder One's inner circle, or to pose as sailors looking to let rooms in the spindly tenements crammed between the canals of Waterside and keep an eye on the new quayside inspection patterns, as artisans in need of a new workshop in the Iron Heights where the surface dwarf community is rumbling about divisions in the Ambassadoria, or mages fallen on hard times looking for lodging in the worker slums near the magic forges of West Shrek where military recruiters haunt the street-corners and the able-bodied but unwary are sometimes snatched from alleys and pressed into service.

The Venatori aren't the only thing setting the city on edge. Pockets of strange magical effects have begun to appear in the city. There are places where gravity abruptly ceases to function as expected, the world flipped on its head for 10 yards and then just as suddenly normal again. In others, it's time that is out of sorts, the walk from one end of a certain block to the other somehow taking an hour longer than it feels, the movement of clouds overhead slowing to a crawl until the next street is crossed. Some places have simply ceased to be—half of a building replaced with a mess of crumbling walls and stairs or jagged crags of rock that Riftwatch will recognize as pieces of the Crossroads or the Fade drawn physically into this world. Even where all appears normal, one may become aware of an uneasy sensation of something passing nearby unseen, of being watched, of sounds just on the edge of hearing, emotions surging suddenly out of nothing as if catching the mood of a non-existent mob.

Street prophets cry that only the Elder One can save the city from crumbling, the decay caused by centuries of worshiping the non-existent Maker and his false chantry, and restore the Imperium to its glory. Among the populace, a fair number believe these claims. Some also blame the southern Chantry for the damage, claiming they've sent their own barbaric mages or their Templars or both to disrupt the magic that's always held Minrathous together. Still others believe that this is the beginning of something wonderful—that the Elder One is restoring a greater magic, and soon Tevinter's nonmagical population will begin to exhibit magic themselves and bring Tevinter into a new era of equality and dominance. Meanwhile, iffy areas have been marked with signage, though that doesn't keep the curious out, and outright dangerous areas are under guard. An area near the docks around the old slave market has been quietly sealed off by soldiers with stories of some sort of dangerous enemy sabotage attempts, but there are whispers in nearby taverns of Wardens seen coming and going.

There are rifts, too. Ten years after the Breach they're not unprecedented, but the frequency with which they're opening in Minrathous right now is unusual, both to Riftwatch and to the locals. The sudden proliferation over the last few weeks will be a topic of nervous conversation (and sometimes fascinated conversation, in certain circles). Whether to help close them or let Minrathous suffer for Corypheus's choices might be a topic of debate within Riftwatch, but it turns out those aren't the only two options. Riftwatchers might come upon a team in Venatori colors arrayed around a rift with anchors outstretched, shutting it themselves as others hold the demons at bay. They might also notice some members of such a team being closely watched and ushered back into wagons for transport when the work is done.


II. QARINUS

In Ancient times when Tevinter ruled the known world, Qarinus was at the heart of the Imperium, its queen married Darinius, uniting their kingdoms to create the empire and make him the first Archon. But as borders shrunk in Ages past, it found itself more and more on the outskirts, nearer Antiva and Rivain than Minrathous and nearer Par Vollen than comfortable. Positioned at the gate to the Nocen Sea, it has been a magnet for both trade and conflict. It was conquered and occupied by the Qun for the better part of a century, was the last major city to be freed by the Exalted Marches of the Storm Age, and recently suffered the ignominy of being officially renamed 'Ventus' in honor of the commander of the fleet that drove off another attempted Qunari invasion in 9:12 (a name locals still defiantly refuse to use). This history, along with its location on the border, the danger of the surrounding seas, and the large population of foreign travelers and emigrants passing through, have given it a reputation as the frontier city of Tevinter, rustic and lawless, the Imperium's version of Llomerryn.

In reality, it's closer to a normal mid-sized Tevinter city than it is an outlaw haven. Its rocky coastline has certainly long been home to plenty of smugglers' dens and pirate hideaways and the crowded port is wound with narrow, ramshackle alleys leading up to dusty central plazas still showing damage from Qunari incursions. It does have a provincial air in places, but its rougher areas are also balanced by its share of lush palm-shaded gardens and lavish cliff-top villas, citrus trees and draconic statues lining the wide stone promenades around the floating Praetor's Palace, and an outpost of Orzammar's Ambassadoria. But its reputation has become a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, especially since Corypheus revealed himself and the Venatori began to imprison its opponents. The current praetor is Magister Havian Sulara, Venatori and a close ally of Calpernia. Even so, the city has less of a conspicuous Venatori presence, and since they've tightened their hold elsewhere the number of magisters coincidentally retreating to summer homes by the Straits has markedly increased. Rumors abound that several prominent opponents escaped to Qarinus and are still hiding out in the city, running a network of smugglers shuttling those targeted by the Venatori to safety in Qarinus and beyond.

This last is true, and certain erstwhile Riftwatch leaders have had a key part in coordinating those escapes through a network of naval contacts operating in the Nocen, assisting not only in discreetly ferrying people out of Minrathous and other port cities, but helping identify those willing and able and direct them to an anti-Venatori organization based in the city called the Lucerni. Run by a woman called "Thanira," actually Magister Maevaris Tilani who has managed to slip the Venatori net, the group is quietly gathering itself in the shadows of Qarinus. The People of the Silent Plains are active here as well, with a cell in the city similarly dedicated to smuggling escaping slaves into Arlathan Forest and beyond (which they'll report used to be pretty easy before all these shem politicians started sneaking about). While the city does not share the pervasive anxiety shivering beneath the surface in Minrathous there is a restless energy to the place and its people, a chippy edge to everyday conflicts and minor disputes. Maybe it's just the sweltering weather and the crackle of daily thunderstorms, but there is an unspoken sense of something brewing.

It's time for Riftwatch to do more to help. The eluvian giving access to Qarinus is set into the wall of a sea cave, which floods with the high tide. While moving it without breaking the glass would be difficult (potentially impossible), the good news is that the cave was once used by smugglers and connects to several others, leading up to the cellar of an old lighthouse set atop the cliffs at one edge of the city. Riftwatch has taken over operation of the light and the ramshackle smuggling base hidden within it. Here most of the conversions have already been done by the prior occupants: there's a room full of bunks and hammocks for at least 12, kitchen and dining areas, and a surprisingly cozy space for off-hours relaxation full of furniture made primarily out of barrels, rope, and grain sacks.

Qarinus isn't large enough or hostile enough to require more than one or two auxiliary safe houses, but in addition to establishing those, there are allies to make contact with and intelligence to be gathered. Agents will be tasked with assisting in moving refugees both into and out of the city; escorting potential political prisoners, escaping slaves, and supply deliveries from smuggler's landings to meets with Lucerni or the People's agents at various places throughout the city; and helping others slip out onto ships bound for still-neutral Rivain, caravans into the mountains or toward Arlathan, or the ships or wagons of smugglers trading illicitly with Antiva.

While their presence is light compared to Minrathous, there are plenty of Venatori still running the city, on watch against both agents of the Qun and any rumored resistance movement. They're doing their best to prevent any enemies of the Elder One from passing through the city in either direction. Riftwatch agents will also be assigned passive surveillance missions, tracking Venatori movements and observing their operations to get the lay of the land will also help get Riftwatch up to speed, keeping a lookout especially for weaknesses that might be exploited in the future.


III. NEVARRA CITY

The crypt is mostly empty of corpses—some destroyed or missing, others relocated to the more prestigious Grand Necropolis now that there's so much empty space—but that doesn't stop the space from being unsettling to people who are unsettled by that kind of thing. The door to the crypt is set into a hill, with ancient windows that allow some tree-dappled sunlight to pass through into the entranceway, but further back there's no daylight, only a mix of fire and veilfire braziers that throw long, flickering shadows. The halls are lined with enclaves that seem like a mix between bedrooms in an inn and big-windowed storefronts: the possessed corpses that reside here do so on perpetual display, unconcerned with privacy. The materials used to construct these little houses echo the eras and preferences of their occupants, and while they're largely empty now—the furniture and belongings that once surrounded each body have been looted, reclaimed by families, or relocated—there's still something arguably disrespectful about settling into what are essentially abandoned graves. Anyone who stays here overnight will be advised to do so in the entrance hall.

But this isn't a place where Riftwatch might routinely need to settle in and hide. They only need a place for an eluvian that's safe from observation. Outside the crypt, Nevarra City and its environs are friendly and happy enough to see them; the inn along the road to the city proper will gladly put them up for its standard fee.

The royal palace and the city center are occupied by the Mortalitasi, who are still overseeing the city's reconstruction and making painstaking attempts to match abandoned corpses to their correct ancestors, but also taking their time with it to try to settle the situation between the Van Markhams and Pentaghasts before having to commit to handing the capital over to one or the other. There's no real danger left. If Riftwatch agents visit to meet with Mortalitasi allies, the narrow streets are quiet, eerily empty. The black marble statues of Nevarran ancestors and heroes dotting the public spaces might be the only new faces anyone comes across on a walk. But around the rim of the city, outside the older walls from when it was a much smaller place, citizens have returned to occupy the sprawl of smaller houses. Most of them are poorer folks who never found anything better in the intervening years, but a number of people employed by Nevarra's wealthy and noble families are living there too, essentially glamping in large tents filled with comfortable furniture, to make sure they can be among the first to reclaim their employers' property and fend off looters or squatters when the rest of the city reopens.

The Grand Necropolis is a hulking, glowing shape on the edge of the city. A long cobbled road flanked by statues of robed skeletons, each holding a lantern lit with green fire, leads to a towering onyx gate. It is a forbidding entryway despite that Riftwatch has been invited, their presence required to close a rift. A pair of Mortalitasi greet them and escort the way into a long hall, this too flanked by skeleton statues, now three stories tall. The shape of their ribs is echoed in the twisting striping of the even taller pillars and the loose arches of the ceiling above, the gaps between leaving the space open to the air. Mausoleums line this road, style and state of repair varying widely. These levels have been cleansed of rogue undead, the Mortalitasi explain, and those that could be returned have been, but restoration of the individual tombs themselves are the responsibility of the families. Their route curves gently, and slopes even more gently, enough that they may not realize they are winding their way underground until they pass through an arched tunnel overgrown with ivy and find themselves in a cavern beside a yawning pit, its squared sides marked out by a perimeter of more green lanterns and by a set of weeping willows, ghostly pale and tinged green only by the lantern-light, branches shifting in a draft from the deep.

Here they meet the Mourn Watch, a group of elite Mortalitasi (their escorts have explained) tasked with the protection and preservation of the Necropolis and its occupants. Johanna Hezenkoss, a 60-something woman with a sturdy build, long steel-gray hair, and minimal patience, and her recently-inducted apprentice, a young elf named Lukas Rutter who looks as if he'd like to smile but is too nervous, explain the rough outline of the problem as they ride the elevator cage down (how far is difficult to gauge). Efforts to fully restore and make safe the city have been long delayed by a continuing plague of rogue undead, new uncontrolled possessions, mostly demonic, continuing at a rate the Mourn Watch has eventually managed to contain to lower levels of the Necropolis but has been unable to stop, and which is straining their resources such that they cannot guarantee the city is safe to repopulate. The source of the problem eluded all manner of investigation and experiment. The Necropolis is vast and difficult to navigate even for experts and grows only more so the deeper you get, Hezenkoss will tersely and defensively explain. But finally, someone happened upon a corridor never before seen or recorded in the order's archives and blocked by a massive rift.

To get to it, Riftwatch and the Mourn Watchers (a larger group awaits them at the end of the lift journey) will have to fight their way through an uncommon volume of demons, some in pure demonic form but most in some sort of body: corpses in various states, collections of bones reconstituted in approximation of a skeleton, scrabbling limbs clawing their way up through the dirt, giant-sized golems formed of loose collections of bone and stone and matter. The rift, when they reach it, is a gaping slash in the center of what looks like elven architecture plucked from the Crossroads and inserted into the Necropolis, like a chunk of shrapnel lodged in a wound. It is a piece of a hallway lined with doors, and while none are passable, a breeze flows outward, and the sickly green light of the rift flickers off something through one arched doorway to create an impression of depth beyond. It will take an uncommon amount of time and effort to force closed the rift, even with the Mourn Watch assisting in keeping the demons occupied. When it is done, Riftwatch will be thanked (genuinely, if grudgingly by Hezenkoss) and escorted back to the surface. Any offer or attempt to scout beyond the now-cleared corridor will be firmly rebuffed, politely at first but less so if pressed. The Necropolis is a sacred place entrusted to the Mourn Watch's keeping. Should they be in need of any assistance in future, they will be in touch.


IV. ELSEWHERE

Val Royeaux is less in Riftwatch's crosshairs these days, having stepped back from attempting to keep up with The Game enough to exert influence on the imperial court's influencers. But Orlais remains a crucial ally in the fight against Corypheus and the Chantry is, well, the Chantry. An eluvian has been located here in the shop of a fashionable and sympathetic modiste, Cecelia Clavet, allowing Riftwatch quick travel into the central shopping districts and access to the wealth of court gossip ladies spill during fittings. The latest has drawn attention: not romantic rivalries or feuding families but a ball (Baroness de Dreux's biannual Mid-Summer Mummery) disrupted by spires of stone suddenly appearing in the ballroom and the dancers finding themselves suddenly on the ceiling. The baroness will be grateful for Riftwatch to investigate (it is, as suspected, an intrusion of the Fade into the physical world), but less grateful to be informed that this is a phenomenon they have encountered before but can do nothing about.

In Antiva City, a boathouse along the Canneti canal has an eluvian installed in its upper-floor apartment. The space is neither large nor luxurious but provides a secure and comfortable spot for Riftwatch to come and go, and for Anselmo Barzini, the owner, to keep an eye on passing traffic for Riftwatch when he isn't poling travelers through the canals on his gondola and eavesdropping on them for Riftwatch. It's an excellent way to gather information, and Barzini is eager to broker a partnership between Riftwatch and I Fratelli della Forcola, a quiet and discreet organization of gondoliers in Antiva City. That's still in its early stages, but Anselmo is certain that bringing a few Riftwatch members to an informal gathering and letting them mingle and participate in a few gondola races (at which they will presumably lose embarrassingly but hopefully with good humor) will win some goodwill.

And near Seere, along the northern coast of Rivain, Riftwatch stashes an eluvian inside a wrecked ship in an isolated cove along the coast. Getting to and from shore requires either a rowboat or a short swim, and Seere itself is half a day's walk away. But much closer is a small village situated on a coastal cliff that overlooks the Northern passage, where Riftwatch has one friend in particular: an elderly Tal-Vashoth woman named Karaas who's as wary of the Qun as they come. She's spending her retirement from life at sea watching the horizon through a spyglass and keeping meticulous notes on any ships from Par Vollen in particular. It's easy enough for her to add Tevinter ships to her particular area of concern and keep an eye on their hidden eluvian for them, and she has a sailboat they can borrow to get to Seere faster if necessary. She'll also alert them to the presence of a young whale caught in yet another area of strange veil effects, trapped in a pocket of water now suspended in the air as if filling an invisible room. It will require some ingenuity, but if they can find a way to climb up, they might be able to use reality-reasserting magic, runes, Templar abilities, or anchors long enough to weaken the effect and help get the whale back down into the actual sea.

V. THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

While most of Riftwatch's eluvians are dedicated to the need to reach the middle of a given city as quickly as possible, two are set aside for getting away from it all.

For the first: Riftwatch has long had access to a sparingly-used hunting lodge in the Blasted Hills, near the Hunterhorn Mountains and Anderfels border. It's a location that will be made infinitely more useful by trading its resident eluvian for one large enough for griffons to pass through—the transport of which requires volunteers to take a road trip with a slow-moving cart and team of draft horses and camping overnight in the Orlesian countryside rather than risk storing the enormous eluvian in a roadside inn's stables. But the ability to pull up the canvas in the cart and drop through the eluvian to trade shifts with those back at the Gallows in a matter of minutes makes it less miserable, maybe, for those who pull the short straw on any given day.

The hunting lodge itself, when reached, is unforgivably heavy on antler-based decor and covered in a year's worth of dust and cobwebs, but otherwise it's in serviceable condition. If anything it's too large; the previous owner frequently hosted guests and their horses and hounds, with spare bedrooms and an expansive stable to accommodate them, and the appointments are rustic in aesthetic only. (The fact that the woody decor and enormous murals of the chase are a bit overdone and, arguably, cringe in the capital this decade might have something to do with Riftwatch's uncontested possession of the property.) It will take some carpentry and heavy lifting to transform the existing stable into an eyrie that can comfortably house a couple of the griffons at a time. Once there's a place for them, griffon riders will need to begin practicing coaxing their griffons through the eluvians and short stretch of the Crossroads—unpleasant but blessedly quick, and something they're generally clever enough to learn to do efficiently—and can begin flying loops into Ander territory to accustom themselves to the landscape. Roving darkspawn are common in the Anderfels even between Blights, and the rule of Corypheus over the last few years has brought with it an increasing problem. A band of rogue Wardens, escaped from Tevinter-ruled Weisshaupt and living in a rough but well-established camp in the mountains, do their best to protect the villages of the area, but some help wouldn't go amiss. They'd also be struck by the sight of the griffons—previously thought to've been lost again as hatchlings during the First Warden's coup eight years ago—and will be eager (even jealous) to get the opportunity to work with them.

And on the opposite end of the continent, beneath in the southeastern reaches of Ferelden, Riftwatch has recently been granted use of an abandoned dwarven outpost. The quickest route for transporting a spare eluvian is to take a ship down the Fereldan coast to Gwaren. The isolated city was, in fact, built to support the shipping needs of the outpost in its heyday as the center of dwarven salt mining operations. After the mines were abandoned, old access points nearer to the port were walled up or collapsed for fear of darkspawn incursions. The remaining accessible entrance is a day's journey through the damp, foggy Brecilian Forest and down into a narrow, easily-overlooked cave that ends in a fortified door. Riftwatch has a key, but getting the heavy doors open also requires repairing a rusted-through chain and cranking some gears. Fortunately, once the eluvian is inside, they won't have to go through the doors every time, or possibly ever again.

Inside, they'll find the remnants of a village that was abandoned centuries ago when it became clear that darkspawn would ultimately make the Deep Roads between Gwaren and Orzammar impassable. The occupants had enough warning to pack up their valuables, and decay has had hundreds of years to do its work, so there's little in the way of personal belongings to find. But the homes were carved into the stone walls directly. Aside from a few that have been eroded by streams or drips of water, they show minimal signs of damage. Much of the furniture is stone as well: bedframes, tables, chairs, and desks all remain, though most will be improved by the addition of some kind of cushion. There's an open expanse that was once a pasture for brontos and nugs that's now been overtaken by the latter and a variety of mushroom species, a smithy just shy of still being operational, a network of mining tunnels that turn eerie and white when the salt deposits are reached, and a quiet mausoleum of stone tombs. Altogether, it's large enough to house all of Riftwatch, if that ever became necessary—it just needs cleaning and stocking, including removing debris from the underground streams and pond that could serve as a long-term water source and dealing with a giant spider and her many large children.

Spider aside, there's no sign of serious danger. The rune-encrusted, fortified entrance to the Deep Roads is still holding strong. There's no sign darkspawn have ever managed to breach the outpost itself, once it was closed up for the last time, and no sign of scavengers ever finding the entrance in the Brecilian Forest. It might be the most secure secret clubhouse ever.
portalling: ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ. (pic#15621520)

stephen strange | research

[personal profile] portalling 2024-08-24 01:22 am (UTC)(link)
nevarra city.

Needless to say, Doctor Strange is thrilled to visit the Grand Necropolis. So when the opportunity arises to answer the summons and help close a rift here, of course he says yes: his head is on a swivel walking through the empty streets, admiring the architecture, for the first time behaving as his closest thing to a tourist. He talks the ear off one of their Mortalitasi mage allies, bordering on an interrogation — what are your best methods for exorcising the dead? are you allowed to explain how you bind them? what’s with the talking skulls and would it be possible to visit one? — so he might need a colleague to please come haul him away before he says something alarming.

Eventually escorted deeper and deeper into the Necropolis itself, their Mourn Watch guide Hezenkoss leads the way, a rattling cage-lift descending to the lowest levels and even the doctor has the sense to be quiet as they enter this grim, revered space. As they wend their way to the cut-off corridor, battle ensues: mages’ fire lighting up the crypt’s darkness, living skeletons clawing their way out of the depths. A possessed corpse, jaw half-ripped off and tendons dangling, comes lunging only for the sorcerer’s gleaming golden shield of magic to suddenly materialise between your face and its teeth. “You alright?” he asks, remarkably chill about all the necromancy. [spookyscaryskeletons.mp3 intensifies]

In all his work, however, the Head Healer hasn’t been much involved in closing rifts — so when it comes to this particularly large one, Strange finds himself struggling. He sinks to one knee, pain ratcheting up his arm, pulsing like a heavy heartbeat embedded in his hand. If you have an anchor, you should pool your efforts together. If you don’t, he could use the help simply to stand.


val royeaux.

He doesn’t mind Val Royeaux, especially when roaming academic circles: returning to Orlais with some correspondence, some supplies and notes from the Research division, following up with contacts from the Riftwatch Cultural Exposition. Lady Clothilde Bonheur, cousin to the Dean of Lydes, has a soft spot for the doctor, so whenever he runs into her at parties, he’s walking the knife-sharp edge of courting her scientific patronage but without leading her on; he sometimes needs an excuse to escape conversation if it starts turning towards talk of wine or dinner.

When she asks him to attend a lecture as a favour to her brother, Professor Thierri Bonheur, Strange gamely complies and brings a colleague or two. Which leads to a lecture hall and a demonstration on experimental botany, a cluster of Orlesian scholars presenting on Fade-touched plantlife and the possible applications for rapid growth. But when Bonheur proudly exposes a sample to a runestone,

the plant explodes into motion, growing fast and furious and punching through the table. People are shrieking, chairs toppled over backwards, gigantic vines growing through the wall. Some tendrils have smashed through the window, seeking sunlight: thick and flourishing and quite literally coiling around Strange as one of the nearest spectators and swallowing him up, yanked into the mass of plant-growth by his leg. There’s a furious buzz of outrage as the audience scatters, Bonheur defending himself (“You have to admit that it worked!”).

In the meantime, the doctor needs some help getting out.

Another evening, he answers the summons to the Baroness de Dreux’s biannual Mid-Summer Mummery and enters the ball to find it filled with stone spires, aggrieved dancers trapped on the ceiling. Some elven servants are trying to reach up to catch them as they jump, but can’t reach. Strange cranes his head to look up at the reversed gravity.

“Huh,” he says, eloquently.


wildcard.

( just wing something at me or hmu @ quadrille on plurk/discord if you wanna brainstorm! happy to do bespoke starters, and i can easily have him present at one of the other locations. )
portalling: ɪɴfɪɴɪᴛʏ ᴡᴀʀ. (pic#15613391)

for vanya (& special guest); nevarra city

[personal profile] portalling 2024-08-24 01:24 am (UTC)(link)
It’s a smart idea to have a buddy system, for so many documented reasons. Strange isn’t picky about who he journeys through the Crossroads with, so long as they can put up with his occasional jokes about supervision and tying themselves to each other for safe-keeping.

Today he’s walking alongside Vanya Orlov, and he very politely doesn’t remark on why it’s such a good idea to have company. The other man is quiet and hard enough to read, difficult to tell if Orlov’s bothered at all by being back here. Their conversation remains mostly polite and professional as they head for the Nevarran eluvian, mage and (former) templar together, headed for the crypt exit where they’ll eventually be met and escorted further to the Necropolis by one of Riftwatch’s Mortalitasi allies.

As they approach the mirrors, the sorcerer finally just has to ask: “When was the last time you were in Nevarra City? Has it really been overrun by the undead for almost five years?”

Okay, but sound less excited about it, Stephen.
wearyallalone: (we are watching you)

[personal profile] wearyallalone 2024-08-24 04:31 pm (UTC)(link)
"Undead have been a problem for closer to seven," is very quiet. "I don't know that I would say overrun that entire time, but it was 9:43 when the Inquisition was attacked here. They — we, I suppose, I was in the organization at the time — damaged a large portion of the Necropolis and, as far as I understand from those in Diplomacy, the Inquisition's alliance with Nevarra, though it seems that both have been at least somewhat repaired in the years since."

Whether it's because he's Nevarran or it's simply his temperament, Vanya seems more sad than unnerved by the prospect of what they're facing as they approach the mirror that will take them to his hometown.

"My mother, I think, was frankly more concerned with the power struggles between the Pentaghasts and the Van Markhams than she was with the undead, at least to judge by her letters. Then again, they have been staying with cousins in the country the past few years, so I suppose the political strife strikes her as the more pressing reason the city hasn't been restored in the meantime." A pause. "To answer your question. I was here with the Inquisition, in 9:43. I haven't been back to the city since, though I've been in other parts of the country." And it wasn't as if that last visit had been in any way a social one.
portalling: ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ. (pic#15613414)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-08-31 05:24 am (UTC)(link)
“Still, what a pressing issue: a capital city rendered unusable due to too many zombies. You’d think it’d be top-of-priority for resolution.”

There’s a perpetually annoyingly jokey tone to Strange’s voice, a pithiness that hadn’t ingratiated him with the locals even all the way back to his and Vanya’s first mission together to Cledwyn. But perhaps Vanya’s learned this much about the sorcerer since then: Strange is in fact taking this seriously, despite that light tone.

“I suppose…” he muses, as they walk. “When aliens attacked New York and left so much in rubble, reconstruction took ages afterward. Budgetary concerns balanced against all the other running costs of keeping a city going. Entire new departments had to be created to deal with all the debris and alien technology — like unvetted magical artifacts, strewn everywhere — and the construction contracts were a nightmare. So perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised at the delay. But I had no idea our preceding organisation was responsible,” directly or indirectly? “for the mess, though.”
wearyallalone: (over the static and noise)

[personal profile] wearyallalone 2024-09-02 11:40 pm (UTC)(link)
"As far as I'm aware," because hey, leadership didn't tell him everything, "the Inquisition was not at all responsible for the actual undead. Non-Nevarran agents treating the Grand Necropolis with less care than they might, but even I can allow attacked by rogue undead is not a condition under which most people are their most careful." It'd be a joke except it's also true.

He does add, "I don't know the condition of your New York, but I think things might have been handled more rapidly if it were clear who was in charge of the country. The disputed succession didn't only split attention, it split resources. I presume both contenders thought they could rebuild the capital once they were securely in power."
portalling: ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴏf ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss. (pic#15781108)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-09-07 11:06 pm (UTC)(link)
“And in the meantime the contenders are, what, wasting time squabbling over ruins?”

It sounds a little withering, but thankfully Strange has the wherewithal to soften it a moment later: “Sorry. I know it’s your homeland.”

—and wait, should he have asked about hometowns on the medical questionnaire? Maybe not. Whether someone’s from Nevarra or Rivain might be a matter of mild social interest, but it’s ultimately irrelevant for the Head Healer unless there’s some hyper-regional-specific Orlesian syphilis, he supposes.

He’s distracted. They’re drawing closer to the mirrors. “On that note. Got any particular plans while you’re in Nevarra?” he asks, the way you might ask if someone’s got plans for the upcoming long weekend.

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claiming my tithe

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portalling: ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴏf ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss. (pic#15781090)

for ness; nevarra city

[personal profile] portalling 2024-08-24 01:25 am (UTC)(link)
This is a sacred space, so they’re not supposed to go roaming.

And in fairness, they don’t intend to give the rest of their group the slip. This is not planned. But sometimes old and crumbling architecture, weakened from prolonged lack of maintenance, additionally stressed by a bone golem smashing through a load-bearing pillar, means the floor gives way beneath your new pupil’s feet and you have to go leaping in after her —

They both go crashing down into the semi-darkness of an old crypt, with the real battle and the rift somewhere above and behind them. Groaning and letting some light spark at his fingertips, Strange stands up. The darkness creeps in at the edges, only a few old wall-sconces of green fire to illuminate their surroundings with a dim sickly light. There’s dust everywhere, thick in the air. He sneezes, and then offers a hand to Ness to help her back up to her feet.

“That’s a workplace hazard if ever I saw one,” he says, lightly.
aberratic: (𝟏𝟏𝟔.)

[personal profile] aberratic 2024-08-24 07:28 am (UTC)(link)

"We should complain to management," Ness agrees from the floor, winded. Before she takes Stephen's hand she takes stock of all her limbs, makes sure everything's where it's supposed to be and she's not feeling any worse pain than she expects—the easiest way to take an injury from "bad but treatable" to "oh fuck you're doomed" is to move before your doctor says you're allowed to; she learned that from Stephen's tract in the infirmary.

Satisfied that she's not any worse off than winded and bruised, she takes Stephen's hand and lets him pull her up. The light he provides would have been more than enough for her to see by once, and for a moment Ness squints into the darkness, waiting for her eyes to adjust. After a moment, she huffs a humorless, self-deprecating laugh, and flicks her wrist to call up four small violet orbs of light, which coalesce into one orb floating above her head. The sound of the battle still rages above them, but it seems that, against all odds, nothing fell through the floor with them when it collapsed.

"Well," she says, looking to Stephen with a barely contained smile. "We didn't get separated from them on purpose. No one can get mad at us."

portalling: 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘤. (pic#15609053)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-08-31 05:20 am (UTC)(link)
“I live to find loopholes,” Strange says, and it’s a joke but also the truth: he’s continually skirting the rules, ducking them where he can, forging his own path for selfish curiosity.

And you can’t just dangle the temptation of an entire Grand Necropolis in front of them and say don’t roam. Like a bench covered in wet paint. Like a giant red button labeled don’t touch. He doesn’t actually want to cause a diplomatic incident, but now that they’ve been gifted this unintentional detour…

He throws a quick glance at that floating orb above Ness and then extinguishes the flame balanced on his palm; hers is more useful. “Handy,” he says, like he’s pronouncing a verdict on a particularly interesting tool, and then swivels to look around, assessing their surroundings. “More tombs. The Mourn Watch representative mentioned that things get… stranger, the further down you go.”

Pun in present company not intended.
aberratic: (𝟐𝟎𝟔.)

[personal profile] aberratic 2024-08-31 06:17 am (UTC)(link)

As a member of Diplomacy, Ness is absolutely, unequivocally opposed to incidents of any kind. The rubble from the collapsed floor did fall in a configuration such that they might, maybe, be able to climb back up, if they were extremely careful and didn't attract the attention of any mummies as they went.

As the cat voted 'most likely to die of curiosity', Ness steps away from the rubble and further into the darkness.

"I wonder how strange," she says, eyes sparkling with the possibilities. "I mean, given the angry undead and the rock monsters and all—the bar is already set so high."

She's not even trying not to sound excited as she looks around them at the tombs, flitting the orb of light around to anything that looks interesting.

"I hope there are less angry undead. We could ask so many questions!"

portalling: ɪɴfɪɴɪᴛʏ ᴡᴀʀ. (pic#15643392)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-09-08 01:33 am (UTC)(link)
Strange spares one last bemused look at the way they came and how cheerfully Ness abandons it, and then he (equally gamely) trails her deeper into the darkness.

The rubble is so precarious, after all. They might slip and fall and twist an ankle and then where’d they be. Clearly the most reasonable course of action is to try to find a real stairwell leading back upstairs, and take in the sights along the way.

“Have you communicated with the dead before?” he asks, a half-step behind to let Ness lead the way, but keeping his attention trained on their surroundings lest something spring out at them. It seems quiet down here (so far): decorative statues, stone and marble, carved skulls on skulls, dead flowers at the mouth of the vaults. He wonders how long ago they were left here.

“I admit I never actually got to speak to my dead self, he was just a puppet.”

There were probably less disconcerting ways to phrase that, but he’s already decided he doesn’t have to watch his tongue around her; which is a relief.

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dissolving: (pic#17253895)

rift;

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-08-27 04:22 am (UTC)(link)
"Hey," An arm shovels under his shoulders, abrupt and bracing. Strange is tall, Cedric's strong. "Up now – we're –"

Almost there. Green swallows the sound. They aren't close, not really, the rift's fucking big. He's been on demon duty until now, but the thing in his hand’s been throbbing fit to tear from his skin; out of step with his own pulse. Discordant. Magic.

But the rift's fucking big, and Strange is staggered, and he can't put it off any longer. Cedric wraps his hand around the doctor's own, Anchor over flesh. Don't need to be this close. Don't want a spirit swooping on a prone back, either. Gwen would never forgive him.
portalling: ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ. (pic#15613409)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-08-31 05:38 am (UTC)(link)
It’s infuriatingly vulnerable, needing someone’s assistance simply to stand. When you’re the one accustomed to doing the healing, or best case scenario being the one who swoops in all laissez-faire derring-do and fluttering cloak and heroism.

But Strange eventually slings his non-anchored arm onto Cedric’s shoulder, scrabbling to brace against the other man, let the templar carry some of his weight. He feels—

not weak, not wounded, but winded. As if he’s been running a marathon just trying to hold this thing at bay. All of his awareness funnelled down to his palm, his hand, his existence a single scream. Previous, smaller rifts have been a piece of cake compared to this. Baby rifts.

He wishes, not for the first time, that Gwenaëlle were here with her anchor expertise. Can still hear her voice: Mine is almost certainly bigger than yours.

“Have you done one of these before?” he asks. Panting breath, squeezed out in a vise and gritted teeth.
dissolving: (pic#17253709)

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-09-01 09:03 pm (UTC)(link)
"Yeah," Instead of the more accurate (much harder to shout), Not like this, not vast and angry and rooted in sacred ground. "Yeah, 's fine -"

Instead of: I've never seen a hall like that. Or, There's something buried here. A lot's been buried here.

Something stirs the rubble of an archway, light flickering a breeze too gentle for the torrent that rips about them. Planted against Strange, his feet still slip to brace. Cedric's fingers winch about the Doctor's knuckles, a crutch of his own. All the will in the world still wants to tear his hand away. Can't escape the feeling he'd leave the anchor with it.

They aren't the only ones working. Other palms, other voices; figures arrayed in green and gloom. Spirits surge, split, reform. Spells flash. Faces pull. With his chin tipped like a bull Cedric doesn't see them.

But Strange might. One of Mournwatch's own — the girl with the scythe — goes sprawling head over hands. Her skull cracks stone, the bright spirit blade of her staff winking out into a spreading pool of blood. Someone needs to help her. Someone needs to close this rift.

A decision.
portalling: ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ. (pic#15621546)

surprise guilt-ridden third option

[personal profile] portalling 2024-09-08 02:51 am (UTC)(link)
Strange sees it happen over Cedric’s shoulder, the woman falling as if in slow motion, his perception narrowing. A decision. Blunt force trauma, he thinks in automatic assessment: the blood isn’t a good sign, but then again head wounds do bleed a lot— at best it’s a concussion, at worst her skull’s opened up and her brains are spilling out and she’s dead.

He is the Head Healer, is he not? He should probably go help.

Then again. The Mournwatcher’s a mage, but she doesn’t have an anchor. She can’t assist in closing this rift. And he can’t do anything for her here in the middle of a battle; any proper medical care would have to be afterward regardless, once the chaos has died down, once it’s safe to extract her and get her somewhere which isn’t full of dust and bone. (That’s what he’ll tell himself, at least, afterward.)

One life, against closing the rift and cutting the fuel for all of the demons here at once.

This is a familiar, ruthless math problem. In the grand calculus of the multiverse, their sacrifice means infinitely more than their lives. He never likes doing it, but:

He doesn’t mention the girl with the scythe.

“We need to close it,” Strange says, and he turns his head to look back at that glowing green rift instead. Once again he digs deep into his last well of stamina, scraping the barrel empty. He and Cedric remain propped against each other, arms shaking, both of their anchors crackling,

everything pulsing, like an awful heartbeat in the air

this humming weight to the atmosphere, the fish-hooks embedded in their palms, and it hurts in a way it rarely does on a normal day

They haul in unison like a team of oxen, every anchor-bearer in the room exerting their gravitational pull at once. It feels like trying to rip that fish-hook out of their hands. It feels like trying to pull a door shut in the middle of a hurricane, shoulders set against the weight of nature. They pull and pull together and the rift starts to close.
dissolving: (pic#17264605)

you know what i like

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-09-12 02:55 am (UTC)(link)
Aortic spasms drum the air, a wild discord that slowly drags into rhythm. The massed line of them, intention and weight, pulling for synchronicity. Pressure inverts. The Rift sucks inward, and their feet skitter now for the wrong direction, drawn near — too near —

(Somewhere, behind, there sounds a distant crunch.)

A final claw reaches out, throws one long, slimy limb into the solidity of being. Fade steams. Time slows, stills, in one great ringing echo,

And then the Rift implodes.

The arm crashes down, a wet slap of meat. It writhes at Strange's feet before dissipating into goo. Cedric's stance slips loose, breath ragged. It's a job to disentangle. He slumps for the stone floor. Which is when the cry goes up:

"Rina!" The Mournwatcher. Another cradles her head, hair matted for red. Her eyes shoot wide around the burble of a bloody mouth. Her chest heaves onto a gory jumble, whole, moments before. The great tracks of something huge lead away, deeper into the hall. Gone, now. The demons are gone now. Their fuel is.

"Got a doctor," Cedric scrambles for it, useless on jellied limbs and no particular training. "C'mon —"

But he must recognize, closer, that he's volunteered Stephen to a lost cause. Rina is dying. Her fingers stretch limp at the air, grasping for something invisible. He grips her hand, but his own won't shut; tendons still straining, overtaxed.
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doneisdone: (gonna getcha)

midsummer mummery

[personal profile] doneisdone 2024-08-31 03:30 am (UTC)(link)
Trailing in directly behind him, Teren emits a sudden, barking laugh that she does nothing to mitigate; the visual is too rich, in more ways than one. It's entirely possible she came on this mission just to bear witness.

"Fuck," she observes cheerfully, "shall we get the rope, like, or see if it reverses again?"

portalling: ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴏf ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss. (+ Aʀᴍᴀɴɪ) (pic#15781052)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-09-07 12:51 am (UTC)(link)
Strange casts a matching bemused look to his colleague. Teren’s Scouting, so they haven’t associated much yet, but he’s caught her name since she’s noticeable: that jagged scar, the greying hair, both of which automatically earn the woman a bit more respect than otherwise.

Behind them: servants gather in worried clusters murmuring to each other, one of them now feebly waving a broom in the air like the noblemen are some bats trapped on the ceiling.

“Apparently they’ve been stuck up there for a while,” it had taken some time for Riftwatch to be summoned, on the basis of them all hopefully knowing this situation better than some hapless nobility, “so wait-and-see might be a waste of time. Still, I’m not actually sure how to stop it. It’s not a rift.”

He keeps his voice low enough that he’s not advertising to all and sundry that he doesn’t have an immediate idea besides, well, rope.
doneisdone: (considering)

[personal profile] doneisdone 2024-09-09 08:49 pm (UTC)(link)
"Not a rift," Teren repeats, and emits a low whistle, squinting up at the mess. "I'd say we fetch a ladder and congratulate them on the new ballroom, but I suppose the brass would take issue."

When have they ever had to wait or see in their lives? she doesn't ask, but her clear disinterest in their plight says it all.

"Someone lick the wrong orb?" she asks a passing servant, nudging them lightly with her elbow, "summon a spirit of opposition?"
portalling: ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ. (pic#15624648)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-09-14 07:08 pm (UTC)(link)
An extremely frazzled-looking majordomo stops to discuss. His mistress de Dreux is up there, and seething. “What? No! Of course not,” he says, shooting another nervous look above them. The women are sheepishly clutching their voluminous skirts to not have them fall up around their ears and expose their bloomers.

“We do not go in for orbs or summoning spirits.”

“Not even,” Strange cuts in, “as some unusual curiosity to show off? Some priceless new artifact for inspection? We do love our trinkets and our curios.”

“No! The Baroness does not find magic curious! The less of it the better, for precisely reasons like this.

One of the trapped guests throws a canapé — it might be out of irritation, it might be testing the limits of physics, but either way the snack goes flying up/down until it reaches the midway point of the room. Then perspective warps as gravity snags, catches it, and it continues down/up instead, a sausage roll now plummeting directly towards them.

Strange instinctively twitches, a hand jerking up to summon a magical shield in place, and the food bounces harmlessly off rather than braining him in the head.

(In the background, the Fade hums a little louder.)
doneisdone: (thoughtful)

[personal profile] doneisdone 2024-09-17 11:23 pm (UTC)(link)
An arch of Teren's eyebrow follows the majordomo's assertion, and she cuts a doubtful glance to Stephen, who, as far as she's concerned, has the right of it-- but for once in her life, she's tactful enough not to immediately call bullshit.

The canapé's path catches her attention, and, narrowing her eyes at the point at which its gravity reversed, she looks back to the servant.

"We need rope and bedsheets, and people enough to hold them taut proper," she declares, the gears turning behind her sharp, unsquinted eye. This could be either the least or most kinky use of these materials, but Teren doesn't seem concerned with that.

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grindset: (15390227)

experimental botany;

[personal profile] grindset 2024-09-22 06:24 am (UTC)(link)
It took little convincing to secure Viktor's company on this outing. Unusually little, actually, given how busy he's been lately, and how difficult it is to get him to take a break from something when he's on a roll with it, especially when that something happens to be transgressive of the known conventions of enchantment. When the break involves a public appearance, refusal is almost guaranteed. But this time, all it took was a single sentence.

Fade-touched plants, rapid growth—as an echo of his past work, it's too intriguing to pass up.

He's on time, smartly dressed, and personable en route. He's rapt through the lecture's introduction, eyes fixed on that runestone, a plan in mind to approach the presenting scholar afterward and request a closer look. He's gaping in wonder as Strange is unceremoniously snatched from his side by ambitious foliage, only to follow him likewise with a snipped-off quack of astonishment.

Whatever dictates the growing habits of ungovernable mutant plant life from one vine to another, Viktor winds up only partially ensnared, arms still free, crutch still in hand, and most fortunately not upside down. At first look, he can't see—

"Doctor?"
portalling: ᴛʜᴏʀ: ʀᴀɢɴᴀʀᴏᴋ. (pic#15613388)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-09-27 07:09 pm (UTC)(link)
“Well,” comes the man’s slightly-muffled voice behind various over-sized fronds and still-rustling vines. There’s the disquieting sense of ongoing movement around them, their captor-plant distressingly alive as it squirms for the window. But Stephen reminds himself that that doesn’t necessarily mean sentient. There’s light and warmth and open air. Of course it would go there. All houseplants reach for the sky.

This one’s just… faster than usual.

“That’s probably the most dramatic example of phototropism I’ve ever seen.”

Somewhere within the pseudo-jungle now flourishing through the lecture-hall, the sorcerer is dangling upside-down by one leg, his cloak falling upside down and covering his face. He thrashes, kicking, trying to move so he can see and perhaps— summon a spirit-blade to cut himself loose? what if that just pisses off the plant further—
grindset: (15448586)

[personal profile] grindset 2024-10-03 03:44 am (UTC)(link)
Relieved by these signs of life—including, after some strategic wriggling, visual confirmation—Viktor now relaxes into sounding a little pleased, actually, despite the tendril unfurling across his neck like a snake. Carefully pulling it away,

"Indeed. It seemed not even Professor Bonheur was expecting such a vigorous result."

From the direction of his voice, as far as Strange and his obscuring cloak are concerned, comes indistinct activity: rustling foliage, the soft snapping of petioles as stems are pulled through the tangle.

"But will it last?"

Next a pause, then a sudden swish of leaves,

then the sound of Viktor's crutch striking and rattling to rest on the floor.

"That's the real question."
portalling: ᴛʜᴏʀ: ʀᴀɢɴᴀʀᴏᴋ. (pic#15600908)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-10-08 01:04 am (UTC)(link)
“I’d rather if it didn’t. It’s going to be hell on the university’s landscaping staff if it grows out onto the grounds.”

Reacting to some innate urge to escape confinement, Stephen’s cloak of Fade-touched silk flickers — the man unexpectedly goes intangible for a moment, phasing into the Fade and then plummeting further down with a yelp, materialising within another cluster of vines. Still entangled, just a little lower in the room. He curses. At least he’s more horizontal this time, blood no longer rushing to his head.

On the other side of the room, Bonheur’s voice comes distantly: “Are you alright, messieurs?”

“Mostly!” Stephen calls back, and grasps a vine as leverage, craning his head to look back for the shape of his colleague. “You good, Viktor?”
Edited 2024-10-08 02:57 (UTC)

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