During the excavation, one of the basements has opened onto shambling undead downstairs, and the construction workers have called for help. The Mortalitasi’s currently over on the other side of the city, though, and they’re a little short-staffed what with the current troubles, and Riftwatch happens to be nearby while en route to the Grand Necropolis, so why not enlist them to corral the undead and get them safely rounded up —
Why not indeed.
Astrid’s standing in the street, fidgeting, looking intensely uncomfortable. Mouth twisting, biting her lip. She doesn’t want to go down those stairs and face whatever’s down there.
“Um,” she says, and, “I’ve never, like, seen a zombie before?”
ii. the necropolis
Mages, politics, the undead: this is not the hunter’s forté.
They’re in the middle of a Riftwatch meeting with Mourn Watch, discussing precautions for the undead — wards? magical barriers? — but she lingers at the back of the room, shifting her weight from foot to foot, like some truant student not paying attention in class, next to a fellow pseudo-classmate.
“When d’you think we can get out of here?” she might whisper to you at some point; or, if pressed to offer an idea for a solution in containing the dead: “I dunno. Booby traps? Snares baited with… whatever spirits like?”
iv. the depths
Astrid’s used to being atop the mountains. Not, strictly speaking, inside them. Still, scouting means she helps the group work their way across crevasses and treacherous ground, eagle-eyed. She thumbs her crystal every so often, checking for a response like an automatic tic, never hearing anything back.
After a while, she finds herself claustrophobic without fresh open air or sight of the sky, but she keeps hunting for food. Her arrows finding the throat of a nug across some cavernous hall, or the woman squinting at a mushroom, examining its stem and taking spore prints and looking quizzical, trying to remember which one’s which.
When they reach the lyrium heart, she goes completely stock-still. Stares at it in the eerie blue light. Spine, ribcage, what looks like bones wending into the walls of the mountain itself —
Astrid’s legs wobble and she sits down abruptly, shaken. She’s usually laughing, smiling, cheerful and perpetually unserious, but there’s something unexpectedly somber to the woman now.
“Where the fuck are we?” she asks, her voice funereally quiet. Her next words have the sound of old rehearsed repetition, the beginning of a story: “Even mountains had a heart, once.”
wildcard.
( feel free to wing anything at me, or hmu @ quadrille on plurk/discord if you wanna brainstorm! )
astrid | scouting (i, ii, iv)
During the excavation, one of the basements has opened onto shambling undead downstairs, and the construction workers have called for help. The Mortalitasi’s currently over on the other side of the city, though, and they’re a little short-staffed what with the current troubles, and Riftwatch happens to be nearby while en route to the Grand Necropolis, so why not enlist them to corral the undead and get them safely rounded up —
Why not indeed.
Astrid’s standing in the street, fidgeting, looking intensely uncomfortable. Mouth twisting, biting her lip. She doesn’t want to go down those stairs and face whatever’s down there.
“Um,” she says, and, “I’ve never, like, seen a zombie before?”
Mages, politics, the undead: this is not the hunter’s forté.
They’re in the middle of a Riftwatch meeting with Mourn Watch, discussing precautions for the undead — wards? magical barriers? — but she lingers at the back of the room, shifting her weight from foot to foot, like some truant student not paying attention in class, next to a fellow pseudo-classmate.
“When d’you think we can get out of here?” she might whisper to you at some point; or, if pressed to offer an idea for a solution in containing the dead: “I dunno. Booby traps? Snares baited with… whatever spirits like?”
Astrid’s used to being atop the mountains. Not, strictly speaking, inside them. Still, scouting means she helps the group work their way across crevasses and treacherous ground, eagle-eyed. She thumbs her crystal every so often, checking for a response like an automatic tic, never hearing anything back.
After a while, she finds herself claustrophobic without fresh open air or sight of the sky, but she keeps hunting for food. Her arrows finding the throat of a nug across some cavernous hall, or the woman squinting at a mushroom, examining its stem and taking spore prints and looking quizzical, trying to remember which one’s which.
When they reach the lyrium heart, she goes completely stock-still. Stares at it in the eerie blue light. Spine, ribcage, what looks like bones wending into the walls of the mountain itself —
Astrid’s legs wobble and she sits down abruptly, shaken. She’s usually laughing, smiling, cheerful and perpetually unserious, but there’s something unexpectedly somber to the woman now.
“Where the fuck are we?” she asks, her voice funereally quiet. Her next words have the sound of old rehearsed repetition, the beginning of a story: “Even mountains had a heart, once.”
( feel free to wing anything at me, or hmu @ quadrille on plurk/discord if you wanna brainstorm! )