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

Emmrich

[corpsestuff]

II - Tabluex

"You know the other sword is yours," a tall, thin, older man tells a skeleton that's reaching toward the more ornate of a pair of swords before it. The man is currently draping an ornate, fur-lined cloak over a second skeleton's shoulders, and he wears a rather dramatic green coat with curving pauldrons and the suggestion of bones down his back.

"Do not make me tell you again." Where his voice had been conversational a second ago, it's now stern. The skeleton's shoulders slump, somehow, and it takes the plain sword and scabbard and steps into position. The man finishes with the cloak, hands the remaining weapon to the this skeleton, and steps back to be in line with a third, smaller skeleton.

"There. Oh, it's so nice to be putting these back together again, isn't it?" he asks the small skeleton, who hisses, presumably in agreement. "Come, Manfred! There's three more, and then--oh! Hello!"

His expression is bright and cheerful as he spots whomever has come upon him. "Are you here to help?"


IIIa - Shepherd

Emmrich has hung near the rear of the group as they head down, keeping an eye out for stragglers, accidental or deliberate. He's also trying to not make the mortalitasi leading the group feel pressured; only the Maker knows how that's going when one of them is a former student who keeps glancing back.

When one of the group does fall behind, Emmrich stops with them. "It would not do to get far from the others," he says in a gentle enough voice. "I know it appears the path ahead is straightforward enough, but the Grand Necropolis can shift without notice."


IIIb - Combat

"Not again." There is anger in Emmrich's voice at the sight before them. He does not know who the other force is, but they're fighting the Venatori who have killed yet more of his people and currently that's enough for him. Fury can be clearly read in his spine, but it's something else that has his hands briefly held in front of his midsection before he acts.

Emmrich does not step to the forefront of the group. He pulls his staff off his back, though, and begins to speak and cast. "By the toll of the bell and memory's call, serve yet once more." Two of the dead mortalitasi stand and charge at the venatori that killed them, their movements directed by precise yet graceful flicks of his fingers.


IIIc - Aftermath, the Elves

While others have searched the mysterious elves, Emmrich is gently regathering what belongs to each, putting helms back on and sheathing weapons.

"Does anyone know where they're from?" he asks the group at large. While he has yet to see any facial markers among them, it's clear the elves are not city elves, and he's aware that the Dalish at least tend to bury their dead. These had been allies enough in the moment, and if the bodies can be returned to their people it should be done.


Wildcard

[ooc: Hit me up with anything from II or III, start something else in the Necropolis, I'm so down!]

Teren OTA

[doneisdone]

II. The Necropolis

a. Tableaux

Sod the Pentaghasts and the Van Markhams, to a man; Teren stands by in grim silence at the sight of her bickering countrymen, her thin arms folded like a spider in repose. It's not until both parties, completely embroiled in their argument have completely turned their backs that she can be spotted switching a ceremonial sword or two, perhaps a tabard if she has time, onto the wrong side's corpses. She does it with a soundless sleight of hand, her face betraying nothing except quiet attention to her surroundings.

b. Spirits

With very little patience for the politics of this place, Teren commits herself to what one might reliably consider her strength: killing things, even if said things are already dead. She attaches herself to whichever little hunting party needs an extra pair of hands (and knives), quite pointedly not discussing or even acknowledging the significance of this place or its keepers.

However, she does have a way of angling one ear toward any conversation happening in Nevarran, listening in on whatever she's able to process from a distance.

III. The Temple

a. Combat!

In case anyone didn't already know she was a Warden, Teren makes her status known when she slides thoughtlessly into the pool of Blight to pierce through a Venatori's heart from behind, clearly finding its presence advantageous enough under the current circumstances. She's a flurry of blades and blood, pausing only when the fighting stops to watch, narrow-eyed, as the strange elves take their leave.

b. Aftermath

Although she leaves the reading to those quicker at it, the first mention of Zazikel's name results in a brusque "archdemon of the Second Blight," as Teren roots around among the Venatori dead. She looks up, scans about the room, then pauses oddly, straightens: "...weren't there more of us?"

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. ]

talin | scouting | iii

[dirthsal]

a. descent

It shouldn't be a surprise that beneath these Andrastian edifices lie Tevinter ruins, and beneath those lie elvhen architecture—there's nothing the shemlen do that the People didn't do first, after all, their greatest accomplishments merely pale imitations of elvhen grandeur—but there's still something about seeing it, the proof of it, his People's history subsumed by centuries of human nonsense, that rankles. His face grows ever more sour as they descend further into the Necropolis, but he doesn't stop looking.

They pass a broken statue in the sand, what looks like it was once a bird—there's a wing, part of a torso, talons curled around a perch, and Talin narrows his eyes, crouching next to it and peering intently. It's not entirely clear what kind of bird it's supposed to be, but there are two options. Neither are wonderful, but one is undoubtedly worse than the other.

"Dirthamen or Falon'Din," he muses aloud, stroking along the elegantly carved wing, "which are you for?"

b. fen'harel'enaste

Talin is a stronger fighter than he was when Fen'Harel's agents first found him (not hard, though; he was no kind of fighter then), but his experience is with single combat in secrecy and silence, killing ben hassrath and Venatori spies as invested in keeping their cover as he is in keeping his. He's less accustomed to chaotic group battles with blight- and blood magic seeping through the air, oily and thick as fog, keeping one eye on his allies as well as his enemies. This battlefield is not secret, it is not quiet, it's as difficult to keep track of who's on what side as it is to dodge incoming magic—harder still when new people show up, with no clear affiliation but to themselves. He can barely keep up, deflecting swords with his daggers and sidestepping magic in a desperate effort to just stay alive to the end of this.

The gate falls away, slowly. All that matters is staying alive, and killing all the Venatori he can. That's all Talin sees, for a time—the molasses-thick swirl of blood magic, the sneering faces of Tevinter Alti ready to kill, the whirl and spill of bodies all around him. It's not some secret sense or instinct that positions him to block the dar'misu arcing toward a Riftwatch agent's head—he stepped into an unoccupied space and then there was a blade trying to split him open, that's all.

But Venatori don't use dar'misu. Talin looks from the curved blade caught in his daggers, to its owner, sees elvhen ears and ancient armor and his blood runs cold. He shoves the elf back, quickly glancing back to check on the Riftwatch agent behind him, then snaps his eyes back to the elf in front of them. He's got his dar'misu ready, fingers flexing on the grip while he glances between Talin and the other Riftwatch agent, trying to figure out what they're doing.

He's not attacking again. He might have been as caught up in the battle as Talin was, just trying desperately not to die. He might—

"We fight the same enemy, friend," he grits out in elvhen, "Fen'Harel'enaste!"

c. the temple

As soon as they reach the temple, the real temple, it becomes exceedingly clear who it was for.

"Oh," Talin sighs, thumbing over an elvhen inscription at the base of a toppled statue, "of course."

Part of him resists the idea of sharing anything about this place with the shemlen, but a much louder part is far too aware of where they are to take that risk—he's down here with them, after all. Any traps these humans trip will affect him just as well; Falon'Din was not known for his mercy toward the People.

"I would be careful," he says to the next person he sees. "This is a temple to Falon'Din, our god of the dead. There will almost certainly be traps, and old magics lying dormant. Without an expert on Elvhen magic with us, it'd be beyond foolish to rouse anything that slumbers here."

A statement he punctuates with a deeply unimpressed raise of his eyebrow. He knows how foolish you humans can be, after all.

ness | diplomacy | iv

[aberratic]

[ closed starters in the comments! ]

vanya

[wearyallalone]

I. [closed to Gwenaëlle]

Given how many years it's been since he lived here, Vanya is mildly surprised to find that he's a bit moved at signs the city is beginning to resume its old rhythms. Visiting while it was mostly emptied out had been unnerving. While he didn't ask for long, he did secure permission before breaking off from the main group to go check on his parents' home. While Vanya hadn't asked for company, he's glad enough for Gwenaëlle to come along; it's probably good practice not to go alone, as much as anything else, even if the city is safer than it was.

As they approach the house, Vanya's neutral expression turns to a quiet frown. A woman in her mid to late 60s is waiting with a large cart in front of a townhouse, fine though not massive. As she spots them, she raises a hand with an expression of surprise but not displeasure. She has none of Vanya's height and her coloring is fairer than his, though as they get close there's a noticeable resemblance in the eyes and the facial expression. (The current one is something like "this might as well happen," though cut with genuine affection.)

"Mother," Vanya's greeting confirms what Gwenaëlle can probably guess as they get close. "What's going on?"

Mme Orlov leans up to press a kiss to his cheek. "Oh, dear, it's so aggravating. Some ruffians are in the house and they've barricaded the door. Your father wasn't getting anywhere yelling at them, so he's gone to try to find a watchman or something."

Vanya sighs and glances at Gwenaëlle, assessing her appetite to help him deal with this.

III. [open]

a. combat
You couldn't tell it by looking at him, but Vanya always feels his stomach drop a little when fighting Venatori. Decades of training tell him this is what he's good at, but he's now just a man with a sword and no way to block incoming magic. Luckily or unluckily, he's also a man with decades of training in putting his feelings somewhere else to deal with later, and he doesn't pause in drawing his weapon.

To the Riftwatch agent next to him, he says, "Cover me, I'm going to try to close." Even without Silencing at his disposal, he's identified at least one mage who seems to be actively backing up to toss spells from afar. Is running up to an unknown Tevene mage an objectively great idea? Vanya is about to find out, apparently.

b. after
Once the Venatori are dead, Vanya crouches by a corpse, making a start on looking for notes (which will turn out to be present) and artifacts (which will not). He looks tired, but at a glance none of the blood on him is his own.

When someone approaches, he glances up. "I have enough training to be able to spot that something is important, probably, but I can't tell you much in the way of details, I'm afraid. Just picking up things to pass along. Any luck following the elves?"

Wildcard

[If you'd like a starter or have an idea that can't fit into the prompts above, hit me on plurk or discord.]

sennara

[boeric]

[ closed prompts, hmu on plurk or disco if you want to do something ]

hermione granger (forces) (ii and iv)

[reparo]

[ ota, hit me up on discord for any plot ideas... or pick one. ]

ii. a tableaux of two factions

This is why I didn't go into diplomacy, Hermione thinks, with a headache coming on strong as she watches two uppity (she can only assume) mages debate rather ardently whose skeletons look more honourable.

Also embroiled in a debate is Hermione, currently, deciding if she wants to intervene before things get overheated, or just turn on her heel and catch up with familiar faces from the Riftwatch. It's none of her business! She doesn't even understand the differences between Mourn Watch and mortalitasi yet! The last time she had to negotiate with the dead, she taught the lingering spirit of an actor the Macarena dance!

And then someone exclaims that's my uncle's femur, and suddenly bones are being tugged this way and that, like they're rope in a childish game of war, and honestly - what is staying out of people's business anyway?

"Excuse - could you - stop manhandling the skeleton!" And she will look over to spot a fellow Riftwatcher with a look of can you even believe this nonsense?

iv. the depths

a. water

The group marches on, because they must. Lost as they are, there is no other choice but to press on - to linger would be to die, and as much as it is likely that Hermione will never leave Thedas (that there is a Hermione Granger out there in the universe who just gets to move on with her life after the war), she is not about to die inside a bloody creepy mountain. Or whatever this place is.

So they march on. "Just once, I'd like to experience a little less of the horrors in this place," she mutters under her breath, looking at nobody in particular. In fact, she seems to be keeping an eye out for a very essential necessity. "Look there - that's a stream!"

b. air

The cavern stretches impossibly wide, which is only part of the confusion - the maze-like tunnels and pathways they've been down up until now don't indicate at all that there could be a structure of such massive open space down there, and yet here they are.

She can't help the gasp, or the expression of utter amazement - Stendhal syndrome at work - as she points up towards a crystal formation at the core of it. "Is that lyrium...or a heart?"

c. fire

"Step - no, please, step aside," Hermione gesticulates emphatically to one of the dwarves that brought them down here, her wand in hand, the anchor shard glowing in the other. The dwarf points at the wand, gesticulates in return that she should stab the Blight, is she stupid, why isn't she pickaxing the Blight? "It's not a bloody pickaxe!"

Hermione Granger, the very picture of patience after days (hours? years?) without the sun on her face or a route out of these depths.

"It's not a stick eith - oh, bugger it." She'll be the one to step aside, to the space between the dwarf - who's just trying their best to give instructions to this weirdo, really - and the Blight tendrils, and aims her wand at one. "Incendio!"

A mote of fire shoots from the tip of her wand, becoming larger and stronger as soon as it hits one tendril, charring it to such a crisp that it crumbles into ash. She turns to the dwarf, and waves her wand emphatically. "Not a stick!"

d. earth

It's been several minutes since they left the dwarf down there, and the walk has been about as dispiriting and boring as the time before the dwarves found them. But at some point, between one step and the next, comes a:

"Is anyone clear on what we just saw down there?"

e. wildcard

[ bring your ideas here, or let's just let hermione eat a hallucinogenic mushroom. it'll be fine. ]

astrid | scouting (i, ii, iv)

[brennvin]

i. the surface

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! )

lazar

[extortionate]

I) OUCHIES

Can't hardly draw a blade before the melee crushes in. Lazar does what he does best: Tries not to up and die.

Bashes here, clears a little space there, on the end of a burning sword. He stomps faces, hop-steps over others — friendly ones — in just the nick of time. And yeah, maybe he got your wrist. That's on you, mate.

But battle's done.

"Close one."

He rumbles, and steps forward, ignorant to the thin elven blade wedged deeply into his back.


II) THIS BELONGS IN A MUSEUM:

Spends some of his time at a mosaic of some winged creature, working bits loose with clear and constant focus. If any of that's unusual, it's that he hasn't gone after the gilt elves upstairs.

"Shine a light," Yeah, you. "This one's stuck."


III) REUNION (OPEN TO CAVE CREW)

"About fuckin' time," Stomped out of to survey their better half: "Some of us been working out here."

A mummy lifts its goblet behind him, tattered silks flapping from one creaking arm. Cheers.


IV) WILDCARD

[ world's your oyster, hmu on on plurk if you want something specific ]

cedric

[dissolving]

I) WHO DID THAT

There are three eyes in that statue. Two were carved. The third matches the smoke still leaking out Cedric's gauntlet, one hand clutched over palm —

Eventually, he stops looking sheepish. Starts looking on the Gate.

"What happens," He might ask. "To something goes in that?"

Not hard to guess: Thing's thicker than he's ever spied Blight. But metal grinds on metal, thumb wearing a contemplative circle. What happens to magic goes in that?

(Look, he hasn’t read the research.)


II) SEARCH PARTY

The deeper they go, time seems to dilate: Halls stretch on, wind in harlequin patterns of shade. The same tile. The same path. The further they travel, the less they might have moved at all.

Now and again, hope flickers. A shadow throws the shape of a comrade, dissolves again. Voices crackle about a corner, only to reveal Veilfire; dust.

"Dunno if 'm seeing things," Under his breath. A mosaic coils all along this hall: Some great menace of wings. "Or if that's following us."

Might be. Was it always so close to your back?


III) SHADOWPLAY | Open to cave crew

They've been looking. Around the latest corner, he startles — steps back to clear a path for the spirit congealing before him. Wisps draw from wall, threading into the pale shape of some greater form.

Helpful. Maybe helpful.

"And you saw them," Dubious. The spirit bobs in place, collects a dozen tiny arms from the air. Fetal fingers beckon. On each loop they unspool again. "Sure about that?"

He isn't even sure he's guessed right.


WILDCARD

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