MOD PLOT: The Earth Trembled in Holy Terror

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone!
WHAT: Riftwatch returns to Nevarra to look into Curious Happenings and gets a little more Curious Happening than they bargained for.
WHEN: Guardian 9:51
WHERE: Nevarra City, the Necropolis, and beyond.
NOTES: If you have any questions, ask on the OOC post!

I. THE SURFACE

It's taken years for the Mortalitasi to cleanse Nevarra City of red lyrium-maddened undead, clear the streets of corpses old and new, and restore the dead to their necropoli, Grand and less so. But finally, citizens are beginning to return to the city. Wagons and carts are gradually filling the streets, the sounds of construction are everywhere, and a few enterprising traders have rushed ahead to set up shop—in makeshift stalls and tents, or in storefronts that may or may not have been theirs before—to corner the returning market. It's given this grand old city a strangely frontier edge, at least for the moment. Riftwatch isn't staying in the city proper, just passing through on their way to the Necropolis, but in the few hours they might spend there, they might get a general sense of how things stand in the city:

• The dragon damage to the royal palace (ironically, the Castrum Draconis) is mostly repaired, and Pentaghast soldiers and servants are making a show of preparing it for Queen Aurelia's return, ensuring it and the area around it is decked out in Pentaghast banners.
  
• The many ornate statues of royals, generals, and various heroic ancestors around the city are being restored not just by the servants of nobility in the wealthiest districts but by groups of returning locals hoisting their neighborhood's namesake princess or dragon hunter back onto their plinth.
  
• As the banners on the walls and the palace make clear, the Pentaghasts consider Nevarra City theirs. Van Markham statues are mostly being left in whatever state they're found in, but the long history between the families means it's not always clear cut—more than one statue's re-raising leads to a heated argument about whether its subject had more Pentaghast or Van Markham blood, or whether marrying into House Pentaghast counts if the marriage was short-lived, etc.
  
• In a few cases, this conflict seems less superficial: here and there but particularly in the noble districts, someone attempting to move back in will be met by angry accusations that they are actually Van Markham supporters, clandestinely or changing sides now to get their property back. It's hard to tell how many of these are fair accusations vs. opportunities to get an upper hand in old grudges between neighbors or rivals, but at least a few end in arrest by city guards or Pentaghast soldiers.
  
• Because while signs of community are everywhere—tearful greetings between long-separated neighbors, sharing supplies and sturdy roofs—so is opportunism. Squatters gleefully occupying a mansion, shopkeepers returning to find someone has already taken over their storefront. The mostly makeshift city guard seems to be operating at a constant jog trying to keep things reasonably orderly.
  
• Every so often clearing construction or opening a basement reveals a few straggling undead, calling Mortalitasi out to collect them for cleansing and restoration.

II. THE NECROPOLIS

Just outside the city lies the Grand Necropolis, a mausoleum that's stately but reasonably-sized surface structures have nothing on the layered maze of cavernous underground chambers that house ages of Nevarran dead. As invited guests, Riftwatchers will be housed in an assortment of chambers, most decorated with skeletal imagery, a few shared with occupied burial vaults. But the majority of the dead are on display, mummified and dressed as they were in life, possessed by spirits who shamble through the motions of life in tableaux within elaborate facades mimicking homes.

In the half-day they have to kill before the expedition that brought them here, there are a few things to do besides wander around gawking:

• Lend a hand with rewrapping and costuming the mummified undead who are still being restored after their misuse in the attack on the city.
  
• Step in to provide an objective outside perspective on disagreements between the Mourn Watch and mortalitasi loyalists from both the Pentaghast and Van Markham camps, each endeavoring to have their dead out-honor the other side's via more prominent and heroic placement in various tableaux.
  
• Meet with the Mourn Watch to discuss what precautions they're taking to prevent future problems with unhoused spirits, such as those previously funneled into cities by the Venatori during attacks, and press them to prioritize the matter.
  
• Tag along to assist with the routine outbreaks of unruly spirits — or wander into one inadvertently and deal with it alone.

The true purpose of Riftwatch's visit, however, is to aid in the investigation of the mysterious corridors discovered and cleared of a fade rift last time they dropped by. While there's no particular expectation of violence, the Necropolis' overseers have decided what they've found there might in fact be out of their wheelhouse — or at least of benefit to Riftwatch, whom they owe a few favors. There's no expectation of violence, so there's no need for anyone to remain behind. Along the long walk — more of a hike, really, up hills of sand and down winding cliffside paths to reach the most convenient entrance to the corridor in question — their guides describe what they've found so far in enough detail that those listening in and familiar with Riftwatch's other work may guess that the Old God temple structure they're talking about, which they're pleased to report they've batted several groups of Venatori interlopers away from in the meantime, is actually a gate,

Their hosts will lead the way deep into the Necropolis, along the same route they traveled before. This time they continue down the elf-made hall, through which they will find that the doors along the hall previously glimpsed past the rift have now been forced open. Most lead to partial rooms ending in rough stone walls, but one overlaps with half an ornate doorway. This leads into a much larger, but partially collapsed elvhen space. Among the ruins, Riftwatchers will spot the crumbling remains of mosaics and large statues that might once have been some sort of bird.

A passage through the rubble (cleared by the Mortalitasi, they'll explain) leads upwards, the Old God structure apparently layered on top of the elvhen site. As they climb up through the floor into the Old God structure, they'll hear a clamor of sound, amplified and echoing too wildly off the walls for its location or nature to be identified though the obvious guess is that something's happening to the colleagues they left behind. The Mortalitasi lead the way toward the strange (gate-like) chamber, which is not a straightforward process. The halls are a maze, and the veilfire torches seem to be positioned to cast confusing shadows and shifting reflections off the onyx of the walls at angles that somehow always flare light directly into eyes. Combined with the noise, the effect is disorienting, maddening.

When they finally reach the central chamber, those in the front of the group will quickly discover several things that despite all the chaotic noise of battle still ringing off the walls, the Mortalitasi left to keep an eye on the chamber are already dead; that this space is definitely one of the Seven Gates; and that the Venatori are just completing the ritual to open it.

As they cross the threshold there is a sudden rush of energy, like the air being sucked from a room though no physical breeze stirs, a sensation as if a great soundless bell has pealed vibrates through walls and bones, and then anyone who has not already stepped into the Gate chamber vanishes.

If your character had already crossed the threshold into the Gate, proceed to Part III. If they had not, proceed to Part IV. Any character can be in either group, but you have to choose.


III. THE TEMPLE

The force of the ritual is stunning, but there isn't time to be stunned. Almost before the sensation has faded, things are happening. In the center of the ritual chamber, a rift tears open onto perfect blackness, tendrils of Blight beginning to reach out of it and into the room. Some of the Venatori spot Riftwatch's entrance and lift staves or draw weapons, moving to intercept.

At the same time, a group of armored men enter from a passage across the chamber. Some might spot that their plate does not resemble the familiar shapes of Venatori armor, but it won't take any feat of perception to guess they're not Tevinter's reinforcements when they begin attacking the Venatori. A chaotic battle ensues, the elves—as it will become clear they are—intent on killing the Venatori but not hesitating to defend themselves against any attack by Riftwatch, real or perceived, and the Venatori fending off all comers.

As soon as the last Venatori falls the elves depart as quickly as they arrived, disappearing back through a nearly invisible door without a word to Riftwatch. In the aftermath, Riftwatch agents will find themselves with a few things to investigate:

• The Riftwatch agents who were standing behind them a moment ago, who have just vanished. The portion of the temple they just passed through to enter the Gate chamber is now gone, replaced with a similar but not identical section of corridors. It's also different in that it doesn't contain any of the Riftwatch agents the other bit did. They are nowhere to be found.
  
  
• The elves. Agents can find the almost seamless door they came and went by, but the passage leads to a set of crumbling stairs and a hole punched into the elvhen space below, where an eluvian is found. The few dead elves left behind lack vallaslin and wear armor that those present in Arlathan (or, years ago, in the Arbor Wilds) will recognize as an ancient elvhen style.
  
  
• The open Gate. It appears stable. As with the Gate seen in the Crossroads, the Blight is somehow contained within a perfect circle a few feet around the rift. It would be wise to stay outside that boundary. The floor beneath it has patterned channels, repositories for collecting blood, and other features similar to those noted at the Temple of Dumat, all freshly used.
  
  
• The dead Venatori have left behind notes and instructions on conducting the ritual they've just done, which corroborate what Riftwatch learned in Arlathan. Unfortunately they haven't left behind any extra materials that would allow Riftwatch to close the Gate, although review of their notes and comparison of the containers left behind suggest that they did bring extra artifacts that now seem to be missing.
  
  
• The temple housing the Gate is dedicated to the old god Zazikel, Dragon of Chaos. (Some might best remember him for the time his former head priest, the Madman of Chaos, flew the undead corpse of a dragon around Nevarra City several Satinalias ago.) Fittingly, the labyrinthine passages and distortions of sound and light continue throughout the structure, making losing one's way—and one's temper—a very real concern for even the best scouts.
  
  
• The elvhen temple beneath. This does not appear to be another case of veil-thinning effects pulling pieces of buildings out of place, or the necropolis's own strange habit of shuffling rooms about. Some walls and pillars of the two sites are continuous structures or even single pieces of stone, with only the style of decoration changing, making clear that they were built this way, the old upon the older. Sharp-eyed explorers will find patterns in the decorative mosaics that resemble wings, and statues intact enough to be identified as owls. One scrap of an inscription mentions "Dirthamen's shadow," and, "Lethanavir." Dedicated scholars of the elvhen gods (or those who go digging through libraries later) will recognize these as indicating a temple to Falon'Din.

IV. THE DEPTHS

Those beyond the threshold of the vanishing chamber will find themselves in sudden quiet and sudden darkness, save any light they provide themselves. The door that led deeper into the temple now opens into blackness that investigation reveals to be a cavern. There's no light to follow out, and though there is airflow, it seems to shift direction rather than come from a single source.

No magic button for putting the chamber back where it belongs presents itself. Attempts to reach the surface through the sending crystals only work intermittently, and there's nothing anyone can do to reach or help them anyway. Journeying through the caverns takes a few days (though it may feel longer), with no clear evidence that anyone is heading in the right direction. A path that seems at first to be heading up may instead head down; many promising routes end in dead ends. Aside from staring at the walls by firelight and endlessly walking, those seeking a way out might need to:

• Seek out water sources, most urgently. Some limited water might be found dripping from the ceiling at the outset of the journey, and just as things begin to get desperate, they'll be able to find a flowing stream of fresh, clear water flowing from a spring.
  
• Scrounge or hunt for food — the most accessible items being nugs and mushrooms, though the deeper they'll go the less familiar the fungus they'll encounter, including some identical to safe varieties that will instead cause hallucinations.
  
• Find a way to record the ancient dwarven symbols on the walls, not quite understandable even to those who can read more recent dwarven texts.

While few if any among Riftwatch's number may be familiar enough with Shaperate records to name what they've found themselves within, observation alone will allow the conclusion that it somehow feels alive, especially when they reach caverns threaded with of exposed raw lyrium veins that slowly pulse with light as if in time with a heartbeat. Upon entering this area their sending crystals, already malfunctioning, begin broadcasting anything they say through the lyrium veins in the walls, surrounding them with their own voices.

In time they also find the heart, a stone-encrusted node of lyrium suspended in a cavern that, on examination, has a spine and a ribcage larger than any dragon's (though only so much larger). They'll only have a half-hour or so to investigate, however, before a person with the build of a dwarf, indistinguishable beneath crown-to-toe nugskin armor save for glowing blue eyes, arrives and gets their attention across the language barrier.

Though armed with unfamiliar weaponry, their new companion shows no inclination to harm them (unless threatened), though they do seem eager to get everyone away from the heart and may slap a hand away from touching anything. Riftwatch would be forgiven for thinking the dwarf intends to guide them to the surface out of the goodness of their lyrium-imbued heart, but they're led instead to a cavern where two other nearly identical dwarves are facing down an arcing stone protrusion across a chasm that's laced with red-tinged black instead of blue. They quickly make it understood that they're trying to remove this section of the rock — an emergency amputation. The creature they're protecting is not so very large, but there are only the three of them acting on its behalf, armed with pick axes and small lyrium explosives, and they're able to communicate with pointing and a quickly-agreed upon language of thumbs-up and thumbs-down that they need help:

• Use magic to pummel the stone or fire to burn back the encroaching veins of Blight.
  
• Help them place their explosives into hard-to-reach crevices, invent creative ways to hold them in place, and rappel around the edges of the rocky limb to get at it from new angles.
  
• Grab a pickaxe and get pickaxing.

And do all of this while dealing with earth-rumbling tremors and the occasional outright visible movement of the stone, as if it's struggling, all of which can only be calmed by the song hummed by their mysterious dwarven companions. As the work progresses they'll become more insistent that their assistants join in. Once the stone is connected by slivers of what it once was, the guardian who fetched them from the ribcage beckons them to cross over it to the other side, where they can watch as the two who remain behind detonate the last explosives to drop the arc into the chasm below.

The one who crossed with them will lead them from there through a maze of connecting caves, outward and upward, sometimes squeezing the largest of them through perilously tight squeezes, until they reach a point where the occasional ancient carving in the stone walls bear signs of elven and then Nevarran influence. The dwarf will decline to go any further. But from there only an hour's more exploration will allow them to emerge into a dusty chamber where a wandering, helpful Necropolis spirit can assist them in reuniting with the living.

Comments

yseult | part iv | ota

[hassaran]

a. The heart chamber is not the end of their journey, but even teh relentlessly-focused Yseult makes no objection to pausing to study the strange space—the arching ribs of stone that show no sign of having been shaped by tools, the hunk of lyrium at the center of the spidering net of blue veins that glow and pulse, the tremors that shake the cavern around them.

She's produced a small notebook and pencil stub from a pocket, but after a minute or two of scratching asks whoever might happen to be nearest, "Can you draw?"

b. There is a crevice the dwarves have indicated they would like to place an explosive in, but it's too high to reach. Not just for them, for anybody—it's a good twelve or maybe fifteen feet up, and far enough out to rule out an easy climb. Yseult's been studying the wall, looking for hand and footholds in the torchlight, but finally concedes the need for an alternative, and turns aside to point up at it.

"If I can stand on someone's shoulders that may be high enough to place it. Or toss me, if not."

c. Rappelling down from above is an easier way to reach another patch that needs to be chipped away. The dwarves have brought rope, which Yseult winds carefully around shoulder and thigh and belt in a makeshift harness. "Has anyone brought gloves?" may be wishful thinking, but worth an ask. "Have you done this before?" is the more imperative question, to whoever's readying to swing down beside her.

d. [ Wildcard. Find her failing at snaring a nug for supper, making notes around the campfire, swinging a pickaxe, hiking silently through the near-dark, etc. ]

c. rappelling.

[mournwitch]

“Yes’m,” is the ready answer to both questions, from a woman who wears gloves fairly habitually — considering her visible dedication to the apparent Northern tradition of having one’s tits and navel out as much as possible, a surprising amount of the rest of her is generally covered. Probably not, or not entirely, unrelated to her now-stated experience at rappelling down various unlikely crevices,

experience she probably wouldn’t be elaborating on to their glowing-eyed hosts even did they share a convenient lingua franca, what with it seeming likely they might take the business of acquisitions somewhat amiss.

(She hadn’t needed to have her hands slapped away from touching anything more than once, but it had been that once.)

“How long do we need to hold it in place for? If we’re blowing them fast, I can probably brute force it with an eyeline.”

How feasible that is entirely depends on how close to the blast she’d have to be to be able to see what she’s doing.

[hassaran]

"We'll have about twenty seconds." If she and the dwarf both understood their mimed conversation on the subject correctly. And if the fuses on these devices are consistently predictable. Dwarves are generally good at this sort of thing, but neither these explosives nor these dwarves are anything they've seen before.

Just in case, "We should plan to be a safe distance in ten if we can. Fifteen at the most." Which may mean swinging out of range rather than climbing up, depending what the terrain below them looks like.

"May I borrow a glove? For the rope."

a

[boeric]

She takes the book, which must be an answer.

Sennara turns the page, and doesn't begin straight away, first hatching lines into grid. Hers isn't an artist's hand, no prettier than the sketch Yseult's abandoned. But it can be accurate.

"Priority?"

She has her own ideas of that, eyes shining back against so much blue. A very large lyrium crystal, suspended in the chamber, that's what the girl had spoken of. This is something altogether different.

Her mouth pulls, tongue-tip through teeth, guessing at scale. One square to ten feet?

[hassaran]

Yseult's sketch barely merits the name, arcs and lines roughly mapping the space with words overlain rather than any attempts to capture the details. She hands it over easily. (If Sennara finds an excuse to glance she'll find many of the pages are in some sort of shorthand.)

Arms crossed, she squints up at that crystal, the lyrium glow harsh after so many hours in darkness. A gesture upwards at it matches the tenor of her shrug, ever so slightly dry. "As you'd expect. What do you think it is?"

[boeric]

"Alive." Impossible to draw another conclusion. This place is like standing in a hollowed whale. But Nevarra lingers. She amends, "Maybe preserved."

"The red dragon," Corypheus' corrupted beast. "Lyrium moves it, yes?"

It was buried in those corpses, animates the great juggernauts, changes their rifters. Another body, then. Sennara considers, framing heart between pinched fingers. Scratches a measurement. She turns the page, past loops of squiggling line — better an eye for the whole of the page, than any singular shape. She'd like to know what language it condenses. If they make it out, she'll make inquiries.

"This is bigger. Wrong bones. Shaped like man, giant." She rotates the page for Yseult's review: The curve of spine nearer a recumbent body than reptile. "For two legs, see?"

They need to get closer. A step forward, and the ground rumbles beneath them, sends her stumbling to brace. Rocks shower loose overhead, crystals crackling in echo along the walls. Alive.

[hassaran]

"We believe so. Or at least controls it."

This regarding the dragon; she's not prepared to commit to an opinion on their surroundings just yet. There'll be time to consider the implications of standing inside a living mountain when they're traipsing through the darkened tunnels again (what exactly those might be she'd now prefer not to consider at all). She leans to eye Sennara's sketch all the same, and gaze flicking from page to cavern and back more than once before she nods in unavoidable agreement.

The ground shakes--she takes a half-step to steady herself, a hand instinctively stretched to the other woman's arm to steady her as well. Her mouth presses into a rueful line. Alright, maybe it can't be ignored.

"Have you ever heard of a creature this large?"

[boeric]

"Aban-ataashi."

Arm gripping arm. Her eyes lock, and no point in translation; no purpose to repeating: Cetus aren't shaped like this. Years ago, a young wyrm washed up on the beach, lank and starved with a belly slashed by runic spar. She'd picked through the remains, dug a tooth from its jaws, and never thought —

The pencil-lead bounces at their feet and keeps rolling, down into the chasm. Sennara crouches, the motion tugging Yseult with her like a forgotten kite. The crevasse is deep. She wants more limbs to ground.

"There is sculptor. Ancient Age. Says he sees golem big as juggernaut, bigger. Says this thinks and walks free."

Artists exaggerate.

[hassaran]

Yseult follows the tug instinctively to avoid risking her balance, even as brows twitch into a furrow at the unfamiliar experience of being yanked along. Crouched on the balls of her feet she reaches to pluck her notebook out of Sennara's hand, tucking it safely away into a pocket lest it meet the same fate as her pencil.

The floor shudders and heaves beneath their feet, enough to force her to press fingertips to stone. The way it hums with life is just as unsettling and harder to call an earthquake.

"Artists exaggerate." Bigger than juggernauts? Walking free? "In Par Vollen?"

[boeric]

"Tevinter," Lest she think the Qunari so credulous. In Par Vollen, it would only be another parable: The Ashkaari wandered through a desert, and came to a mountain that walked, and that's why you clean your teeth, "In desert."

The floor shudders and breathes. A hum in her own mouth to meet it, synchronizing before she thinks to notice; cuts off. Foolish to join a thing blind.

The floor pitches. The path falls underfoot. Their little platform of rock slips lower, falls again. But something gleams above them, tall if only for the distance; squat, and strange-armored, eyes aglow. A dwarf. A dwarf with a rope.

"Some exaggeration."

Gritted through her teeth. He throws down the line.

b.

[portalling]

The Head Healer’s been a little antsy and claustrophobic in these dark tunnels; it turns out he doesn’t like being underground, not since Sarrux. He keeps a comforting illumination glowing at the end of his veil quartz staff, painting others’ faces in anemic colours, but at least it’s enough to see by. The depths aren’t a situation he can blast his way out of, and so he’s dedicated himself to smaller, quieter problems over the course of this slow march through the abyss: checking on a teammate’s sprained ankle where they stumbled in the dark, tending to someone going through a truly unpleasant mushroom trip, helping shove crumbled stone out of the way.

While the Scoutmaster sizes up the wall ahead of them, he turns his attention to Yseult’s question. He’s tall, so standing on his shoulders could be an option.

But after a moment he makes a thoughtful noise, considering: “How do you feel about being tossed with magic?”

[hassaran]

Bad. If Yseult were given to speaking before she thinks that answer would've been stepping on his question's heels. Maybe there's some hint of it, torchlight highlighting the twitched clench of her jaw or subtle tightening of her mouth. She's been tense since they got down here too, not thrilled by an extended stay underground in the dark against her will. That's hardly notable; no one is. But there isn't much room to ratchet the tension up within the narrow range of physical tells she allows.

And she's not given to speaking before she thinks. So she asks, "Have you done that before? In a non-combat situation?" Personal feelings aside, force magic doesn't typically involve much precision.

[portalling]

With anyone else, he might have levied some pithy humour, some tongue-in-cheek poking at their trepidation. But coming from Yseult specifically, it reminds him of— spine straightening before the head of neurology, standing before the board, presenting his case. A performance review.

“Baroness de Dreux’s biannual Mid-Summer Mummery,” Strange says, which sounds like a fairly baffling non sequitur until he continues, more seriously: “Non-combat situation; a Fade anomaly trapped civilians on a ballroom ceiling. Myself and von Skraedder threw up some heavy ropes to help them climb down. A human body isn’t rope, obviously,”

he could be more careless with rope, the first shot hadn’t actually landed perfectly,

“but it could be close. Consider it…” She looks like a gymnast. “A springboard? A bit more propulsive force to get higher.”

[hassaran]

"Heavy rope. What a flattering comparison." She casts a sidelong look at Strange, the inherent silliness of this and of biannual mid-summer mummery converting some portion of that tension into humor. "Did von Skraedder throw them with her arms? A shame she's not with us."

She surveys the site again, one hand on hip, fingers curling in the dark cotton of her shirt. "There's little room for error with that force. The ceiling, the drop off to the side, the explosive."

[portalling]

There’s a beat, assessing, while Strange cranes his head and looks up again, squinting at the landing zone. He’s pinpont-precise with his magic, but— notsomuch in Thedas.

After a moment, he mutters to himself, “Someday I’ll convince someone to let me try a Fastball Special,” and then shakes out his hands, rolling his shoulders, limbering up. Conceding at a normal volume: “Explosive is an alarmingly persuasive point. We can do it the old-fashioned way if you like. Be a bit embarrassing, if I had to explain to the rest of leadership why our Scoutmaster’s become paste on the wall.”

Sorry. He’s not very reassuring.

[hassaran]

"You sometimes sound very like Stark." The rue that colors her tone curls at one corner of Yseult's mouth for just long enough to be spotted in the blue-white glow from lyrium veins and Strange's staff. It's not precisely a compliment, but there's an undeniable tinge of fondness alongside the exasperation that keeps it well short of insult, whatever his personal opinion of Tony might be.

She swings arms out and back across her chest, rolling shoulders, limbering up. "Have you done this before?"

[portalling]

“Y’know, I’ve heard that before.” His own voice is warm with a similar mix of weary fondness, remembering the other man. It’s been a few months since the last time he tripped into thinking about the old Provost; time passes and the sting of it fades and then, every so often, he’s sharply reminded of how very much he misses Tony Stark.

“And weirdly? No. Gymnastics wasn’t really my thing.”

Strange has more experience with tossing vehicles and raising lakes than flinging someone with his bare hands, simple physics, leverage and propulsion. But maybe, just maybe, not every problem has to be solved with magic. He stands at six feet, broad enough shoulders. This should be doable.

While Yseult limbers up, he wedges the staff into a nearby crevice, then drops off his bag, his potion-belt, anything glass or breakable or cumbersome, leaving him standing only in his robes for full mobility.

He won’t need fine-motor control, he reminds himself. He laces his hands together in front of him, makes a platform for her to springboard off: “Is this the gist of it?”

[hassaran]

"You're too tall for an acrobat." So not weird, really. "The professionals are my height or less. People think it will make it easier to catch a trapeze," or whatever, adds a roll of her wrist, "but it makes most things more difficult."

Except this, maybe. She eyes his form and nods, then mirrors it and sinks into a deeper lunge. "When I step in, don't throw with your arms. Straighten your legs as if you're lifting something heavy." She lifts a brow to confirm, then twirls a finger, angling them away toward a safer bit of wall, further from the chasm.

"Let's try once without the explosive. Ready?"

[portalling]

“Ready,” Strange says, and it’s only after the confirmation that some part of him thinks oh shit am I actually ready?

Because this man might leap off buildings trusting the world to catch him, but being reckless with his own life feels easier than being reckless with Yseult’s —

But he doesn’t have time to get in his head about it, because the scoutmaster’s already launched into movement and so he squares his stance against the ground, knees slightly bent, watching the woman’s boots as she steps into the cradle of his palms. Right on cue, he straightens up and flings her in the right direction with a heave and grunt of effort, and a stab of pain in his hands that he ignores; but he’s done enough fitness conditioning in his years of sorcery that the throw is mostly true.

[hassaran]

Yseult's counting on less time to think proving an advantage here, and so it does--she steps, he lifts, she springs up, arm stretched above her head before she catches the wall with the toe of a boot and slap of a palm and drops back down. It's over in a heartbeat and she's landed light as any cat and turned to eye the height of the crevice that needs exploding, trying to judge the reach of her leap.

"That should do," she says, though the slight cock of her chin invites him to weigh in. "A little higher, maybe."

[portalling]

He flexes his fingers, rolls his shoulders, alleviating some of the stiffness. “Warmup,” Strange concedes. “I’ll be able to do it higher next time.”

And he admits, grudgingly, like an offhand thought, “This is one of the times Lazar might’ve been useful.” Man’s got strength on his side, especially compared to the older and more leanly-built doctor; but they’re stuck down here in the darkness and the party’s split and options are limited.

So. Sizing up the height of the crevice again, and gathering his strength. Pull harder, he reminds himself, and: “Ready.”

a.

[reparo]

"Yes, with moderately average success," she answers, when the question is directed at her. She has been studying the engravings, both wishing she were better at picking up languages to understand what they say and aware that this looks somehow old and beyond comprehension.

"But I can copy with above average success," she adds. It's meant to be reassurrance. She has sketched plants in Herbology and the shape of jullienned roots in Potions classes, she can manage staring at the wall and sketching down what she's seeing.

Probably.