MOD PLOT: With Strides Immeasurable

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

LAZAR | Scouting

[extortionate]

i | CROSSROADS

He holds for the edge of the mirror ring, looks near to taking off himself. Lazar shifts, foot-to-foot, hefting the sack of Antivan liquor will serve a few bribes. He's not scared — truly, he's not; run into danger plenty, can hardly name the shape of fear. Only you get a sense for these things. Only he didn't, last time.

Doubt's a foreigner, don't know how to greet her.


ii | ANDERFELS

Dust's the worst part of it. No, the worst's the weather, louring with storm and the bright flash of lightning. Rough on the birds, makes them snappy, and that's really the worst part; the griffons. Mouthy shits.

Except that's not the worst at all. It's worsts far as the eye can see, and nothing for the grey sausage they've traded for. The villages are ugly as the pigs that range them, rooting sparse grass and rock gone black: Hurlock ripped a girl apart last month. Someone's grandfather is missing, went on his daily walk and over canyon edge.

"Hate this fucking place," Bent over a fire stinks of gurn chips. "Let the Vints have it."


iii | THAIG

He runs a finger along the wall. Licks, experimental. Salt,

Finds himself ducking for the work tunnels. Dwarven fashion's always been high ceilings, but the shelves, the beds, the old scaffolds into rock — it's all meant for a man at least two feet lower to the ground. Leaves him out with the nugs one night, eyeing a mushroom might be the kind gives funny dreams, or might just be its lookalike. The one makes you shit yourself to death.

Maybe chancing it'd be more fun than this. Place is picked clean.

Desperation or diligence finds him at one of the stone tombs, prying crowbar under edge. Necessary, you know. Make sure nothing restless waits down here.

"Figure we burn 'em?"


iv | QARINUS

Now this is a proper city. Shame about the people.

Enough got friendly faces, or what’ll pass – even if no one’s too friendly with the Walrus any more. Pirate to People to something near the Lucerni, and he’s playing the part he always plays: He’s playing the big guy with big fists, so don’t push it.

Gone fine so far. Got him here, holed up with their latest contact and tossing a fat grapefruit in hand. Gone fine right up until the guy's spied his face and gone red as citrus.

"I know you,"

Not happily. He snatches for Lazar, who weaves back with improbable speed, snatching for the silverware. This is about to escalate.


WILDCARD

[ game for whatever, hmu on plurk or discord if you've got any questions or want something bespoke ]

CEDRIC CARSUS | Diplomacy

[dissolving]

i | CROSSROADS

This is a new place. Not a kind one, and Cedric's kept hand to hilt since the other side of the mirror. Caution pointed out, toward an uneasy between; to whatever waits ahead.

"We got anyone watching the middle?"

Is that crazy? Overkill? He wasn't here when they cleared the ring out.


ii | CRYPT / NECROPOLIS

Watch the mummies about their strange pantomime: Skeletal fingers trace the empty, cobwebbed shelves; still tongues murmur on air. Joints twitch and crack, turn their blind skulls to passerby. One stares back at him from silver coin eyes, stitched into place above socket. It is —

Disrespectful, to linger this long. An honour to even be here. But Cedric is, for the moment, somewhere else entirely.

The next day sees him sharper, animated. Never been so near the Grand Necropolis, never expected to step inside; now or after. So he holds his back a bit straighter, walks a shade faster, keeps closer watch. The pains he takes to enunciate before Hezenkoss are, themselves, a little painful.

His mouth thins along the rattling cage down. Not long before they're swarmed: Stomping a scuttled hand, crashing a wave of corpses against his shield. They glance off lighter than the living, but furious of it, clawing for blood. He aims to cover the others, and he aims true, until some monstrosity of marbled rock lifts its craggy fist overhead.

If there's a moment, it's now — or Cedric is about to find out just how deep a templar can dig.


iv | AFTERMATH

He blinks into the light outside, struck for the afterimage of that other hall, its verdant bleed. Cedric flexes his palm against the day, solid. Bright. Real.

Something of the rift had been also. Shut, gone, between,

But real. It is only when they're alone that he dares to ask:

"How likely was it really unrecorded?"


v | ALIENAGE

It's empty here, too. Enough refugees took up with family in Cumberland, or Perendale, even hopped a border. Anyone too poor, or stubborn to abandon their home's still kept their distance from the Alienage center.

An enormous oak sways above coiling root and broken stone. Its branches stretch for the sky, waving with white finger fronds; bark rippled by the strange fusion of Fade and old bone. Those interred beneath have been drawn up, into the warp. Here you might trace the arc of a jaw. There, faded paint. A ribbon.

This is not how it was meant to be.

Between the abandoned tenements, one building strikes grander, its lower floor whorled in carvings and bleached colour. A neat, angular hand marks the door: Clear. Whatever this place was, Mournwatch has made it safe.

Cedric jiggles the handle, and it breaks off in hand. A glance to the side, a short breath. He kicks the door in, hard.


vi) ANDERFELS

He’s been difficult to pin down. Work scatters them all to a dozen winds. Maybe there are places he'd be more useful, down with the Wardens, making nice. And maybe he’ll be there, soon enough.

But right now he's squatted on the edge of a cliff, feeding Agathe from a sack of loose rats, looking maybe the opposite of Diplomacy. One slips from his hands, all blood and slobber, goes flopping wet onto the group below. Agathe burbles her discontent, too tired to chase. It's been a long week.


WILDCARD

[ game for whatever, hmu on plurk or discord if you've got any questions or want something bespoke ]

jayce talis

[pathlit]

[ split into locations! hmu if you'd like something specific or wild card me! ]

anderfels

[pathlit]

( a, open -- The Blasted Hills )
Nice lodge. Heavy-handed on the antlers and antler-adjacent décor, but beggars can't be choosers. Perhaps they've recently arrived or perhaps the job's been put off until someone's face introduced itself to a cluster of webs. Either way, there's sweeping to be done, up and down and every which way, which means several brooms are hard at work, or hardly working--

"Whoa-ho!" laughs Jayce, narrowly blocking his opponent's strike with his broom. His is a two-handed grip, broom head first and threateningly cobwebbed. "Almost got me."

( b, open -- wilderness ) [ cw: vomit ]
While acclimating themselves to the wasteland that is the Anderfels, a small group touch base with the rogue Grey Wardens. Amongst goodwill endeavors, including the exchange of spices, dried herbs, and clarified butter -- little things unnecessary to survival, but a speck of brightness to an otherwise bleak routine -- they discuss the rebounding population of griffons in the mountains surrounding Kirkwall and the logistics of adding some of those griffons to the Wardens' ranks.

There is, of course, the matter of darkspawn. Until this point, Jayce's experience with the darkspawn was limited to secondhand accounts, written or spoken. After the latest night patrol, his experience now includes 'first-hand': a malodorous, repulsive change that rattles his innards and prompts him to seek solace behind one of many towering rocks, politely affording the other members of the patrol group some space while he retches beneath the rising sun.

( c, open -- The Blasted Hills )
Carpentry isn't part of his primary skill set, but he is an engineer and a smithy who's willing to put in the physical effort, so Jayce can be found reviewing schematics, hauling and splitting materials, and otherwise hammering or welding things together. Shirtless, one might add, because the weather is hot as fuck.

So, after a day of hard labor, rather than return to the lodge to clean up, Jayce and Uggie make a bee-line for a small lake that's just a few minutes away by flight. The water is cold, but clear. Uggie snaps up a few freshwater fish while Jayce freshens up, keeping his pants on if there's company, going nude otherwise.

Of course, he notifies someone before departing from the general group if it's just him and Uggie -- Viktor, if he's there -- just in case. Jayce has died (thanks, Granitefell) and/or gotten lost (thanks, Crossroads and Dirthamen temple) enough times, thanks!

byerly

[bouchonne]

[ gonna do a few separate starters below ]

ferelden

[pathlit]

( d, open -- mushrooms )
Squatting on the ground, open book of illustrations and text in one gloved hand while the other hovers near a mushroom, is Jayce. He is trying not to make himself ill, see, by referencing this tome on local fungi in an attempt to identify the different species present in the outpost. Any Riftwatch members with an intimiate familiarity of its library or has an interest in Thedosian flora, for whatever purpose, might recognize the book as one of Riftwatch's copies of The Botanical Compendium by Ines Arancia. Yes, he borrowed it. Officially checked out, even!

Near his boots is a basket that contains some of the mushrooms -- a humble harvest, if you will -- of two apparently different varieties, grouped separately. One assumes these might have passed the first safety check re: edibility, but Jayce certainly isn't well versed enough in shrooms to tell the difference between a toxic and non-toxic specimen if they're similar in appearance.

He intends to request another member double-check his yield before consuming, but flags down the closest individual in passing. "Hey, just a sec," he's saying, gesturing with his free hand between the cluster of mushrooms in front of him and the open pages, flipping between two entries with his finger and thumb, "does this look like a Blushing Morel or a Bleeding Morel to you?"

Both look disastrously similar. One will cause internal bleeding, the other will not. [ and they're both totally made up for this scenario! ]

( e, open -- forge )
Amidst the abandoned forge is a plethora of tools. Jayce evaluates them with a casual sort of awe, mentally catalouging the contents. Would Hedda find any use for these? He thinks it's a fair inquiry given the time, expertise and resources she'd given to him and Viktor.

But first, they need to see if the forge is still functional. This takes quite a bit of physical labor, shoveling out the old coal and coke into separate piles for future use, and ash and other less useful materials out of the hearth, and then scrubbing off any present rust. Yes, he's also doing this shirtless. It's filthy work; at least he's spared his tunic.

By the end of it, his exterior is at least seventy-five percent soot... but the billows work and the flame catches. With Riftwatch's efforts, the forge grumbles awake.

Most of his time in the outpost is henceforth spent in the forge, cleaning and revitalizing the tools, and other such related tasks, but he's around for any heavy lifting that needs to be done. Probably still shirtless. And sore.

closed to bastien + benedict

[bouchonne]

The house is a prosperous one. In Gwaren, the salt air and cruel winds make homes decay fast, so the tidiness is all the more remarkable: there's not a single spot of paint curling, not a single shutter askew. Even though it's a rather large space, inside, there's not a single draft that comes through. It's well-made.

Attended by servants, too. Not a large staff, mind - the man who met them at the door clearly works as valet and footman and butler - but to be able to afford help in these times of scarcity speaks to the comfort that the Goodwins of Gwaren have managed to achieve. So, too, does the plush divan upon which the visitors are settled, and the family portrait on the wall: large and well-painted, it depicts two dark-eyed children, a young man with a receding hairline, and a beautiful woman with long eyelashes.

Byerly's eyes linger on that portrait. He's fished a coin from his pocket at some point, a copper, which he fiddles with endlessly, scratching at the metal with his fingertip so that he has something to do. He is, transparently, terrified.

qarinus

[hassaran]

"Oy! Settle down, sweetheart."

That's Yseult. She's called Janna today, and the sling of her elbow over the chairback and the snap point of her finger, the gaudy flourishes to an otherwise practical outfit, all color in the shape provided by that dockside Marcher accent til it says Coterie, maybe, or something like.

"Don't look at him," she says, when the fellow hesitates a second. She's dropped a knife out her sleeve into the hand hidden behind the chair. "He's nobody. Look at me."

[altusimperius]

Trailing after him and, in an unusual reversal of temperament, Benedict looks rather more at ease with the situation than Byerly. Having his cloak and bag taken by a servant has re-injected a little bit of long lost Artemaeusness into his posture, but it's still with a sympathetic eye that he glances from Byerly to the portrait.

"That's you," he observes, neutrally.

mushrooms

[altusimperius]

"Um,"

Benedict leans closer, and when his substantial height proves too far away, stoops to get a better look.

"...it rather looks like Blushing," he says uncertainly, squinting at it, "but..." glancing at the book, "well what happens if we fuck up?"

v

[doneisdone]

Grim-faced and silent alongside him all the while, Teren's stoic scowl breaks only briefly into a faint smirk of approval at Cedric's approach to the door. If it works, it works.

"Some shit's the same everywhere," she remarks dully, drawing a knife just in case as she skulks into the building after him. Wherever there's an Alienage, one can more or less guarantee it's the last to receive assistance, relief, any attention at all.

[pathlit]

With a wry grimace, Jayce flips to the page on Bleeding Morel and says, "Pretty sure we die. From the inside."

He holds the book up in offering.

[cozen]

The observation prompts Bastien to give the portrait another glance and closed-tooth smile.

Seated to one side of Byerly on the divan, he's arranged in a way that is as effortless as it looks only because it's so well-practiced he doesn't have to think about it. Slightly crooked. One leg extended a bit further than the other. His lean against the back a touch askew. His arm dropped across his lap. Common, casual, calm, and only narrowly within the bounds of good manners. Effortless but intentional, to look so confident and unworried.

He considers the portrait, then By's profile. Then his fidgeting hand. There are times and places Bastien would have covered it with his own to calm it—affection, but also a correction. Be still. You're giving yourself away. Now, he leaves his hand alone, and instead he fixes a few strands of Byerly's hair that don't need fixing, then leans around a little to catch his eye and make a silly scrunched-up face.

No commentary; he can't confirm or deny who's in the portait, himself.

ISAAC | Forces

[wythersake]

i | CROSSROADS

Absent a staff, and borrowed in black, Isaac might pass for a Vint. At least until he opens his mouth.

He has trouble with the mirrors – with keeping them straight. It isn’t so uncommon as it ought to spy him stepping out of entirely the wrong eluvian, or into another. He probably didn't mean to find Antiva. He certainly didn't mean to find Nevarra.


ii | WEST SHREK

I don’t, He’d once told Yseult, Know what it is to be a mage there.

Still doesn't, for all that he can better affect a neutral Trade. West Shrek is its own particular wakeup call. He is used to a hard face or two. He is not used to needing beware them. It's one matter to know yourself lifted from this, and another to look it in the eye, on even footing.

He's here with a purpose. He is looking for a name. He is also being followed by a pair of armed men (guards? recruiters?) half a block back. Ducking into an alley, abrupt:

"Behind me," There are a few ways out of this. Fewer alone. His breath is short, "Two of them."


iii | RIFTER WAGON

Cassiopeia was an early defector: A loud little libertarian, of blunt features and disposition. The years have added crow’s feet, a white streak, a nose that refused to heal straight. She's uniformed for the Venatori, hefting a serpentine staff.

Even from a distance, she looks tired.

From a distance is where he’s held her until now. There are a few of us – She’d written, through contacts and codes – Who want out. He'd assumed, of course, that was full of shit. Someone hoping to flush a traitor, or a Riftwatcher, and wouldn't either be the long shot with his reputation? Isaac's not known for sticking out his neck.

Even so: He's here. She is. Strangers are, with anchors in hand and eyes on their backs. They've just shut the little rift, green threads still rippling the Veil, and they're already being hustled back into cart.

Across the street, holed up by the window of an evacuated loft,

"Do you think them all natives?"


iv | DISTURBANCES / CONFRONTATION

[ one open-to-a-group thread for confrontation, to which he would not willingly take someone he didn't think was cool with mages. but feel free to use the disturbance however u want outside that. we can do recon, or examine the effect afterwards, or take out guards, or you can somewhere thread something without cassiopeia or isaac entirely ]

The city is unseaming. The weft pulls thin, onto raw Fade; a bloom of spell and emotion that comes on at once, with an urgency that shoves between senses. Fury and joy roil through the street on a sudden, wild surge. It is possible, if you listen, to hear a roar. The wet thunk of a head.

Of course, there’s nothing there. A few soldiers pace the street beyond a shuttered ampitheatre, signs for a show plastered over with indefinite hiatus. They're to meet Cassiopeia within.

Within – where an improbable field sprawls, lush and green. Flowers break beyond stone. Vines snake a tangle of thorn. The arena is overrun in growth, summer air singing with life. Stems crack up like little fireworks, blooming at rapid pace to form and unfold before the naked eye.

They wither as quickly. Leaves dry, blacken onto themselves. Petals drop and dust. A grub crawls, only to find itself hardening into case, guts and shell dissolving for a butterfly. It takes a sticky first wing to sky and falls again; dead.

The pace is swifter, toward the center of the ring. In those final twelve inches, roils a chaos of constant motion, continual rebirth. Toward the edges, where sand touches stand, normalcy resumes. Only dry stone, and wood bench, and scattered pamphlets: A man cutting the head from some great Orlesian lion.

Cassiopeia stands at the ring's far end, shaded by the overhang of the gladiators' entrance. She isn't immune to the magic here – nor are you. Enter the ring and wrinkles accumulate, flesh wears, eyes dim. Slowly. Steadily.

Still, the ring's rapid aging lasts only so long as you stand within. Exit in time, and this is only temporary.

"I’ve been waiting,"

She begins, and Isaac tenses, fingers slipping into position; ready to crook for a spell. Whether you aim to recruit or be rid of her, it’s time.


WILDCARD

[ game for whatever, hmu on plurk or discord if you've got any questions or want something bespoke ]

b - vomit comet

[extortionate]

Chewing a hunk of bread baked somewhere between two hours too long and twenty years too early, Lazar squints over —

"Don't get it on your boots," Comes around a mouthful of crumbs. He picks a few out of his beard, adds them back to mouth. Darkspawn happen. So does breakfast. "Have ants all day."

[bouchonne]

It is him in that portrait, and it isn't him. It's funny: that portrait is of his sister, her husband, and their two children. A boy and a girl. But that boy does look exactly like he did, once, and that girl looks exactly like Nadine. What is it about the damnable Rutyer genetics, where everyone from his cursed clan looks all but identical? What does it say about the prospects of those two poor children, that they have the poison in them? What -

Byerly looks up when Bastien fixes his hair, and looks right into his silly grotesque face. He feels torn between laughing and crying. Settles on laughing.

"It's close enough," he answers Benedict. And then the door opens, and in walks the woman from the portrait.

She's overdressed. That's the thing that catches Byerly's attention first. Her clothing is far too fine for the simple act of greeting family: waist narrowed by stays, feet in delicate kidskin boots, dark hair perfectly styled. In his paranoid mind, he wonders: Is this a message she's sending to me? Is she telling me I'm family no longer?

But those a bit less paranoid and a bit more perceptive - certainly Bastien, maybe even Benedict - may notice, also, her chewed fingernails and her anxious gaze. This isn't a clever, subtle little sartorial message; this is someone who's trying not to look like a total hayseed in front of her worldly older brother.

"Hello," Nadine greets them. She is painfully beautiful, and her voice is lovely. She's also twitchy, plucking at her skirts. "I assume you're - Benedict Artemaeus, and Bastien. My name is Nadine Goodwin, and I'm - Byerly's sister. Hello. Byerly." Her gaze falls on him, and she gnaws at the inside of her cheek, and says, "Could I fetch you some mead? Have they taken your coats? It's very cold here, I imagine, for all of you, coming from the North, even in the summer. It's always very cold here. But it's a nice day today, I think. We might see sun later. Wouldn't that be pleasant? I - Hm."

She falls silent, and presses a hand to her stomach, and then settles it instead at her side. A bit of fidgeting from someone who is, suddenly, clearly very aware that she doesn't know where her hands are supposed to go. Byerly, who's risen to his feet, looks over at Benedict and then Bastien a bit helplessly. How rare it is, to have him be utterly without words.

[altusimperius]

Nadine's entrance and introduction earns her a courtly bow from Benedict, who has certainly noticed her nervous manner, but knows better than to say anything.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Goodwin," he says gently, and then, with a quick glance to Byerly and then Bastien, adds, "you-- have a lovely home."

[cozen]

Bastien stands when Byerly does, tips his chin in greeting when he's identified, and—

He doesn't love her, instantly, the way Byerly loved his cadre of siblings and their children. He's a colder thing than Byerly is. But he does like her instantly. Her chewed nails and chewed cheek and nervous hands. The effort in her hair. And most of all offer to fetch the mead herself instead of calling in someone to do it.

He doesn't return Byerly's look; these kind of nerves, and she might take a silent exchange of glances the wrong way entirely. He catches it peripherally, though, and begins speaking so immediately that it might seem as if he's the kind of chatty fellow who'd have piped up even if Byerly weren't helplessly silent first.

"I will not think any less of Gwaren if we don't," he says. "Sea voyages always make me a little sick of the sun. The sun and the wind, and the whole time you are rationing water even though you are surrounded by it. I shrivel like a fig—so I would love some water, actually, if that is an option, and," at the end of this one-breath deluge, "it's lovely to finally meet you, Madame. Byerly has said so many good things."

iii

[allthatgleamsisgold]

"No."

He doesn't need to say it aloud, but he does anyway, expression grim. ...Well, grim-er. After all, if a scrappy organization like Riftwatch has been collecting the people falling out of the holes in the world, it stands to reason that the conquering tyrant and his vast armies would find some use for them as well.

He's surprised the Chantry hasn't gathered its own little force of Rifters yet. Or maybe they're just better at keeping things under wraps. Or maybe their alliance with Riftwatch is enough and they have no desire to dirty their hands with the sorts of uncomfortable theological questions Rifters raise.

"They're likely to be bound by - " he frowns, the word temporarily evading him, " - phylacteries. Or similar magics. Otherwise we'd have probably heard about this sooner from some Rifter who slipped the leash."

Swooping down and roasting the Venatori guards would probably be pointless, then, however satisfying in the moment. And he needs to conserve his magic here.

"...What do you suggest?"

[bouchonne]

Here's one difference between the siblings: while Byerly doesn't blush, Nadine does. It's not an especially pretty blush, either: she goes pink blotchily, mostly on her neck.

"Has he?" And then she seems to register that she's asking that question when Byerly is right there; she turns to By and says, "I mean, have you? I'm glad, I thought all they'd hear was that...You know. What a dreadful brat I was. I've gotten better since then, I do promise."

This self-deprecation cuts, at last, through Byerly's paralysis. His lips part, and he draws in a breath, and he says, "Maker - I would never have - You weren't a brat." And then, for some awkward reason, he turns and gestures towards Benedict: "This one, he's a brat. Just look at him."

"Oh, no," Nadine is immediately protesting, holding her hands out towards Benedict like this gesture can shield him from this censure. "Don't say that; he's wonderful."

It's all so awkward.

[altusimperius]

"Pleasant," opines Benedict, taking the book.

"Vlast told about mushrooms from his home world," he muses, looking between the illustrations to compare them to what's in front of them, "apparently they walk around. Maybe they can talk, too, and tell you whether they want to kill you or not."

Apparently you can trip balls on them, which is ideal, but isn't that also murder? Not relevant.

"I think," he concludes, after a pause, "it's probably best not to take the chance. Or... have a necromancer handy, if you really have to try it."

Thaig

[thereneverwas]

"The occupants?"

Nearby, Barrow works at the door to the crypt, oiling its hinges more for something to do than out of any particular necessity. His handier skills have been useful down this way, and he doesn't mind the break from violence, for once.

"C'mon, mate, leave 'em alone."

[altusimperius]

Benedict's eyes go a bit wide when he's put on the spot, but it's enough to immediately endear him to Nadine when she comes to his defense.

He is a brat, but it's nice to be given the benefit of the doubt.

"Mead would be a delight," he says politely, having some difficulty fighting the smirk off his face. She said he's wonderful.

FIFI

[untiltheyarent]

I. The Crossroads

A small figure stands with her basket of supplies, looking a little lost as she glances from mirror to mirror-- but there's no urgency to her demeanor, and if one looks closely, it may become clearer that she is enjoying herself.

Periodically her gaze flits toward something that only she can see, followed by a little appreciative smile, disrupted only by the acknowledgment that someone is nearby to assist or (hopefully not) chide her for hanging around.


II. Safehouse Cleaning Service (any listed location)

After each Eluvian is placed, Fifi is dispatched (perhaps with a few others of the maid staff) to begin and assist with the deep cleaning of its corresponding safehouse. She arrives with the intent of working quietly in the background, helping to declutter and sanitize (medievally) each space alongside the teams of Riftwatchers, and although she generally doesn't speak unless addressed, a friendly enough smile is returned to anyone who initiates.

If someone ever wanted to learn how to get blood out of a stone floor, now's their chance!


III. Out and about in Val Royeaux

The one safehouse Fifi leaves is that in Val Royeaux, and only for the day: she arrives through the Eluvian dressed in somewhat nicer clothing than her usual workwear, and has a particular excited glow about her as she slips out into the street.
It's no difficult task at all to trail her, and even less of one to catch up and offer a greeting: wherever she's going, she's too excited to keep it a secret, and she certainly doesn't mind friendly company.

[cozen]

It's very awkward. It's also very endearing—even Benedict, who Bastien probably believes is a brat much more sincerely than Byerly does. And it's enough chatter for him to ease back into his more natural state: watching quietly rather than yammering on.

Smiling, though, and clearly charmed.